


Posing in a Ballroom

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-01
Updated: 2009-02-19
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 138,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: They have it all: money, fame and a strong foothold in the New York scene of the young and the beautiful. But past the exterior, they are struggling to survive and keep their secrets to themselves as lines between lovers, friends and enemies begin to blur together.TWs:substance abuse (alcohol, pills, cocaine), past emotional childhood abuse, alcoholism, softcore(?) BDSM (it's not hardcore, but it's there), eating disorders, bulimia, step-sibling incest, sex while under the influence of drugs/alcohol





	1. Gunfire

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from LJ by the author. x
> 
>  **TWs:** substance abuse (alcohol, pills, cocaine), past emotional childhood abuse, alcoholism, softcore(?) BDSM (it's not hardcore, but it's there), eating disorders, bulimia, step-sibling incest, sex while under the influence of drugs/alcohol

Gunfire.

The drug dealers were getting blown up to little pieces of flesh and blood and guts and insides, and Spencer’s lips curled upwards in the artificial glow as he stared up at the screen. His thumbs pressed buttons furiously, his brows furrowed in concentration. He was going to win. He was going to finish the mission, get to the next level, and life would be so, so fucking sweet –

Spencer jumped when the ringing of his Sidekick cut through the air, his thumb slipping from the control in his hands. An explosion came from the stereo system followed by the death rattle of his character.

“No!” Spencer protested. “No, no, no! Aw, man… fucking fuck.”

Spencer’s piercing blue eyes shot an angry glare at the flashing _Game Over_ as he dug out his Sidekick to see which asswipe had just allowed the drug syndicate to kill his undercover FBI agent. The called ID said _Bro_ , and Spencer wasn’t as upset as he had been.

“Bren,” he answered the call and leaned back on the couch. “What’s up?”

Spencer was greeted with a wave of noise: masculine shouts and feminine cries, the thumping of techno music, and he could almost smell the sweat of the place Brendon was in. He expected to hear his stepbrother’s voice come through loudly and gleefully, probably asking Spencer to get to whatever party Brendon was at. But, instead, he heard a weak, scared voice, saying, “Spencer? Spence?”

Spencer sat up straighter on the big, leather couch, taking his feet off the shiny coffee table in front of him, adrenalin immediately pushing through. “Brendon? Are you okay?”

He could count the seconds flying by, his heart tightening in worry, before Brendon whispered a lost sounding, “No.”

Spencer shot up from the couch, keeping his calm. “I’ll come get you. Where are you at?”

Brendon made a strangled, confused sound at the other end before concluding, “I drove here.”

“I’ll come get you,” Spencer repeated, and Brendon hung up on him.

Spencer ran to his room to grab a jacket before dialling another number and heading out of the massive condo. “Fuck,” he muttered, wondering what the hell it could be this time. The limousine was waiting for the young man out front by the time the lift had gotten Spencer to the ground floor. The doorman held the door open for him to Fifth Avenue, seemingly not at all fazed that Spencer was leaving at such a god forsaken hour.

Their new chauffer, Tom, was holding the door of the limousine open. It was three in the morning, and Spencer just and just noticed that he had woken up the family’s employer but found it hard to care. He made himself comfortable in the backseat, the darkened windows giving him the privacy he needed. Tom turned around once he got to the driver’s seat and said, “The GPS in Mr. Urie’s car shows he is in the Bronx, sir.”

“The Bronx? The fucking Bronx?” Spencer asked with distaste before sighing. “Well, let’s drive to the fucking Bronx then. Step on it.”

The blond chauffer nodded dutifully, and Spencer closed his eyes, fighting off a headache. Trust Brendon Urie to get fucked up in the Bronx and end up calling Spencer in the middle of the goddamn night. The night hardly made a difference because they were nocturnal by habit, but Spencer knew Brendon. It took a lot to scare the kid, and Brendon had definitely sounded scared on the phone. The drive seemed to take forever, especially after they’d left Manhattan, with the buildings getting shabbier and shabbier, the neighbourhoods shittier and shittier. Spencer kept drumming the window, watching drops of rain roll down it on the other side.

Eventually, Tom pulled the car aside and pointed at a black Mercedes parked across the street. “There’s his car, sir, and Mr. Urie himself is probably in that house right there,” Tom said helpfully. “Should I go get him?”

“No,” Spencer said, “I’ll do it.”

Brendon had called him, not Tom. Brendon liked their new chauffer a great deal, maybe a bit too much to Spencer’s liking. He exited the vehicle, pulling his jacket tighter around him. The street had two rows of houses on both sides, and bass was breaking through the walls of the one where the loud party was keeping the entire neighbourhood awake. Spencer sighed, put on his sunglasses for privacy, and passed a number of young people smoking on the stairs leading into the house. He couldn’t understand how Brendon found these low class parties with fucking random ghetto kids, or at least this was the case that night. It must have been the attention Brendon got. All the women and men tended to go a little bit insane because _the_ Brendon Urie was getting shitfaced with them. Most of the time, Spencer enjoyed the lifestyle just as much.

Spencer’s father, David, had lectured the two of them since they were ten-years-old about the dangers of strangers. They could be kidnapped and held for ransom. They could be tortured and killed. They could not go out roller-skating in Central Park like normal kids, they could not do whatever the hell they liked. They had both bought David’s rant for years before realising that, actually… they could do whatever the hell they liked. As long as Spencer made sure he and Brendon were both safe.

The house in the Bronx was not safe, which was why Spencer was determined to find Brendon and go. People were dancing in the living room, and the place smelled of cheap beer. Brendon was nowhere to be found. Spencer decided to try the bedrooms, pushing drunken girls out of his way as he went upstairs.

To make the snooping around less obvious, he grabbed a bottle of Budweiser with him. He eyed the bottle, taking a sip. A bottle would be, what? One hundred, two hundred calories? Looking around for his stepbrother had his heart racing, so he might get away with drinking half of the bottle and keep a status quo. He took a sip but regretted it instantly, so he put it away and focused his energy on finding Brendon.

After one quick look through the house, he began to worry again. He stopped to ask a beautiful, blonde girl, Brendon’s type, if she had seen Brendon around.

“Brendon Urie is here?” she shrieked, eyes widening. She took a firm hold of Spencer’s arm. “Oh my god! You’re his brother! You’re Spencer Smith!”

Deciding the girl was useless, Spencer shrugged her off quickly. She was shouting something about an autograph after him, which had Spencer rolling his eyes. An autograph? He didn’t even fucking _do_ anything. His only claim to fame was a set of celebrity parents. And on nights like these, he couldn’t care less about the fame; he only wanted to find his stepbrother.

Spencer knew how to be safe, how to recognise potential danger. Brendon? Well, Brendon wasn’t very bothered about those things.

When Spencer finally found him, Brendon was lying on a couch in the basement. Brendon’s Sidekick was in his lap, and Spencer was surprised no one had stolen it already. The young man’s head was resting on the arm rest, mouth gaping open and eyes closed. He hadn’t seen Brendon in a day or two. They both had been on a roll with a new party every night, but Spencer had gotten tired and needed a break. Spencer had to shake Brendon almost violently before getting a reaction, and he tried to ignore how relieved he felt when his blue eyes met a pair of brown ones.

“There you are,” Brendon slurred slightly.

Spencer stared at the state that was Brendon Boyd Urie: a beautiful man of twenty-one with some girl’s lip gloss on his cheek, beer stains on his Calvin Klein shirt, his jeans unzipped, but hey, at least his dick wasn’t out. Brendon’s dirty hair was stuck to his skull, his eyes disorientated and skin in cold sweat.

Spencer pulled Brendon to sit up, and Brendon wrapped his arms around Spencer’s strong shoulders. Spencer sighed and asked, “You taken anything?”

Brendon shook his head. “No…”

“You sure?”

“Not tonight. I… I passed out earlier. When I woke up… I got scared,” his stepbrother replied in a weak, hoarse voice.

“You okay?” was Spencer’s second question. Brendon’s expression darkened, but he nodded nonetheless. “Okay,” Spencer sighed.

If Brendon didn’t want to talk, there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, Brendon was in no condition to talk, and this didn’t seem to be anything serious. Spencer had seen worse. Fuck, had he seen worse.

He pulled them to stand and zipped Brendon up, buckling the belt for him. Brendon rested his forehead on Spencer’s shoulder for balance. The messy appearance was familiar enough for Spencer to visualise a beautiful scenester giving Brendon head just an hour before.

“Let’s get you home,” Spencer suggested and brushed stray hair behind Brendon’s ear.

Brendon’s face paled, and he shook his head, pulling back slightly. “I don’t - I don’t wanna go, I –”

“Shh,” Spencer soothed him quickly. “No one else is home. Grace and dad went to Hawaii, remember? Went over there for New Year’s.”

Brendon focused his glassy eyes, trying to comprehend Spencer’s words. “She’s not home?”

“No, won’t be for a week,” Spencer said reassuringly. When Brendon had this glassy look in his eyes, he looked the most like his mother, Grace. Spencer never pointed it out because he knew Brendon hated nothing as much as being told he was similar to his mother, in any way or form. Brendon wasn’t like his disaster of a mother, even if the tabloids claimed otherwise.

Brendon calmed down, and Spencer began to drag him out, embracing the fact that doing so probably burned that one sip of Budweiser out of his system. And luckily for Spencer, no one tried to stop them from leaving. A handful of party-goers patted Brendon’s back like they were best friends, hollering after them to say it was a shame they were leaving. Brendon only groaned against Spencer’s neck, and Spencer was more than grateful that the paparazzi seemed to have a more interesting scandal occurring somewhere else and that Brendon’s incident in the Bronx would pass without ending up in gossip columns.

Tom opened the door to the limousine, greeting them with, “Good morning, Mr. Urie.” Spencer didn’t appreciate the sarcasm in Tom’s tone at all, but Brendon only nodded.

“Make sure Brendon’s car gets driven home,” Spencer instructed Tom.

“I’ll make sure that it does,” Tom nodded.

Spencer got back inside the long, black car and sighed in relief once Tom pulled away from the curb. Brendon wound himself around Spencer, almost sitting in his lap and still hiding his head in Spencer’s neck.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” he whispered.

Spencer ran his fingers through Brendon’s hair, pulling him closer. “Always,” he assured Brendon.

Brendon nuzzled his neck affectionately, hot, alcoholic breath moving up to Spencer’s lips. Spencer hesitated, shying away with a familiar mix of desire and guilt.

“Spencer,” Brendon whispered in a hurt tone, pushing closer. Spencer looked back at his stepbrother, and Brendon kissed him with wet lips. The kiss wasn’t erotic as it wasn’t friendly, but Spencer felt Brendon smile into it. Brendon pulled back and closed his eyes as he leaned against Spencer, and Spencer could feel his lips tingle from the kiss, and he exhaled shakily. He brushed Brendon’s hair with his nose, knowing he could keep Brendon safe, always. He would go to any length to keep him safe.

Spencer noticed Tom’s eyes flickering on the review mirror, and at that moment, he didn’t care how compromising they looked. He reached for a button on the side panel, making the black screen come in between the driver and the passengers.

These types of moments, when the shining lights of New York City were too bright for them, were moments meant for Brendon and Spencer alone.

* * *

Jon Walker was having an awesome day. That was saying a lot; it was the last day of the year. The yellow taxi stopped outside the massive apartment building on Fifth Avenue, and Jon got out swiftly, bobbing his head to an invisible beat.

“Good evening, Mr. Walker,” the old doorman greeted him. Jon nodded back politely. He was good at charming people.

He was on his way to the Smith-Urie residence. It was not at the top, but it was close enough, with the lavished complex taking at least half of the entire thirty-third floor, and Jon knew that it took several minutes to walk from one end to the other.

“Buenos días,” Jon winked at the elderly Peruvian maid, Lucía, who opened the door for him.

Lucía took one look at Jon, who was wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt, and muttered, “Dios mío,” under her breath. Okay, so it was a little bit freezing outside, but Jon couldn’t be bothered putting on a jacket he wouldn’t wear anyway. Jon only kept smiling at her as he knew Lucía adored him. Out of all of Brendon and Spencer’s constantly coming and going visitors, Jon was definitely up there on an invisible Top Ten list. Ross definitely wasn’t on it, not with his cocky demeanour, and Jon quite congratulated himself on beating Ryan Ross in this game no one knew they were playing.

“The twins are in their quarters?” Jon asked as he looked around the round foyer from which long hallways stretched to the entire condo. He stopped at the antique table in the middle, glancing at the crystal chandelier hanging above it before taking in the family portrait next to the vase of flowers. Grace looked beautiful, David looked handsome, and the two boys must have been fourteen in it. A picture perfect family. Jon had a habit of calling Spencer and Brendon twins, even though they weren’t. But they still were an impenetrable team, and Jon had never broken through, not once, despite having known the boys for years now.

“Yes, they are getting ready for tonight,” Lucía said dismissively.

Brendon and Spencer had their own collection of rooms in the other end of the condo, the end that had the view over Central Park. Naturally, they both had their own bedrooms and bathrooms, a game room and their own living room. Their quarters were twice the size of Jon’s bachelor pad, but Jon didn’t mind. He wasn’t the type to be envious of that sort of thing. Besides, he totally had a Jacuzzi dedicated to sexy times back at his place. He wasn’t about to complain.

As he drew closer to the double doors that marked the kingdom of the twins, an English bulldog came through them, barking at him. Jon crouched down to scratch him behind the ear. “Hey, G-Man, what’s up?”

The dog stared at him with big brown eyes similar to Brendon’s.

“JWalk!” came Brendon’s cheerful greeting. Jon got up and smiled brightly at his friend who appeared at the doorway. Brendon was shower-fresh and beaming, coming over to give Jon a swift, one-armed hug as the bulldog sniffed at their feet.

“How you been?” Jon asked.

“Man, not sure if I’m ready for New Year’s. I’m still recovering from the Christmas parties,” Brendon laughed, and Jon could imagine as much. Christmas lasted for days in their circles.

“Yeah, I heard that you’ve been sighted all over New York lately,” he remarked. “Even the Bronx.”

Brendon laughed. “That was an insane night. Partied until dawn, you know how it is. Had a fantastic time.”

Jon chuckled. That was Brendon Urie: an endless party machine, always happy, always smiling, and not a single worry on his precious mind. Brendon was the kind of guy who could rape, kill and dismember someone, ask politely for forgiveness, and be granted it.

Jon followed Brendon to the twins’ living room which was located in between the two bedrooms and served as one of Jon’s favourite hangout places in New York. The door to Spencer’s room was open, and they heard Spencer’s voice say, “Bren, where’s my black Armani button up? Have you been using it again?”

“I swear I haven’t!” Brendon called back before adding, “Jon’s here!”

Jon had already made himself comfortable on the leather couch as Spencer walked into the room in nothing but a pair of skin-tight black jeans. Jon watched MTV on the gigantic TV in front of him, already having taken a drink from the cabinet like he always did when he hung out there.

“You alright there, Walker?” Spencer asked with a flip of his hair, slightly wet from a shower. Jon wondered if Spencer and Brendon had showered together. God, his mind was fucking sick. They were brothers, for crying out loud.

“Excellent,” Jon said hurriedly, quickly directing his thoughts elsewhere. “I am ready to say goodbye to 2008!”

“Fucking right!” Brendon said. The bulldog jumped on the leather couch next to Jon, looking for more scratching behind the ears, which Jon granted absentmindedly.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Spencer asked Jon with a glance up and down his body, and Jon nodded. “Well, whatever suits you,” Spencer said disapprovingly.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jon asked, glancing at his expensive, black dress shirt with dark blue Levi’s. In most of Jon’s circles his attire would have been considered classy, but that would have been because Jon’s fellow musicians embraced their worn out t-shirts and comfy pair of jeans. But of course this wasn’t one of those circles, and therefore Spencer disapproved. Spencer had never warmed up to him, though he had accepted Jon as a part of their gang. At times, Jon was convinced Spencer was jealous that he got along with Brendon so well.

“Last season, Jonathan, last fucking season. Try to keep up,” Spencer replied with a shake of the head.

“Whatever. I could wear a barrel, and I’d still be on the VIP list for every club on Manhattan,” he retorted cockily, and Spencer gave him a disbelieving look and walked back into his room. “So are Ross and Matt here yet?”

Brendon walked over with an armful of shirts that he dropped on the couch, making the dog shift closer to Jon. “No. Ryan called me earlier when they landed. He should be here soon, just said he was going home to shower and change. Matt’s not coming.”

“Why not?” Jon frowned.

“Jetlag.”

“Pfft, that’s weak. Like Australia is that far away,” Jon said with a shake of the head, though he knew he preferred going out with just the four of them. They understood each other. Brendon called it a gang, which, Jon figured, was one way of saying it. “Did they have fun over there?”

“Yeah, totally sounded like it,” Brendon nodded. “Christmas in Australia, sounds pretty sweet to me. But no, not us, we had to stay in New York because my wonderful stepdad insisted on a family Christmas. Like my mother can cook a tofurkey,” he snorted.

Jon nodded and sipped his scotch, knowing it would take Brendon and Spencer a long time to get ready. He would be pleasantly drunk by the time they left to the hottest New Year’s party on planet earth. Jon hoped some cute celebrity would be there, maybe Mandy Moore, apparently she was in town. He had a mild crush on her. If she was drunk enough, he could totally hit that. Jon might just be famous enough to get it on with her. Though Brendon and Spencer beat him in the "who's the biggest celebrity?" contest easily. After all, Grace Urie had been Miss America in 1982, a chaotic party girl all through the eighties, hosted a talk show in the early nineties, and married celebrity plastic surgeon David Smith ten or so years ago. Jon was quite sure that Grace had also written an autobiography and a relationship guide book. Being a rather useless celebrity, she had time for those types of things.

“Are your parents around?” Jon asked Brendon who was going through the pile of shirts.

“Hawaii,” Brendon replied. “Yours?”

“Dad’s doing some golf tournament somewhere in the world,” Jon shrugged. It wasn’t much of a claim to fame that Jon’s father was a professional golfer, but Jon didn’t need it anyway. He might not have been on the cover of The Rolling Stone, but he had released one album and done proper tours, and he had indie kids eating out of the palm of his hand. He knew he owed most of his success to his good looks, and he carried the label of some kind of an indie heart throb. It was a bit of a shame because Jon thought of himself as a professional musician and was very dedicated to what he did. His father’s career meant that he was also a rich bastard - he certainly didn’t make enough from his music to support his lifestyle. Once his parents died, though he hoped it wouldn't be for another few decades, Jon was going to become a millionaire. His parents lived in a gigantic mansion in the rich suburbs of Chicago, so it wasn’t like they bothered Jon much. They were mostly happy that Jon was artistic, as his mother put it.

“When’s Grace coming back?” Jon asked. So sue him, but Grace looked fine for a woman in her late forties. A MILF, and he liked looking at her cleavage. Sometimes, he just stared at Grace and imagined the two of them doing all sorts of activities.

Brendon only shrugged and picked a shirt from the mess of clothes. “This one!” he decided proudly and quickly changed shirts.

Spencer walked into the room fully dressed. “Another drink?” he asked Jon, whose glass was already empty. Jon nodded, as he knew they were nowhere near done. No, no, they still had to do the hair and the make up and choose the goddamned cologne. Jon had seven colognes, one for each weekday. It was an effective system that worked and ensured that he never had to spend too much time figuring out shit like that.

They all heard the clicking of heels against marble, and Jon craned his neck to see Lucía and Ryan Ross walking into the room. Lucía always escorted Ryan around the house, as if convinced Ryan was about to steal something. It hardly made sense because Ryan was richer than most visitors, Jon included. Lucía just didn’t like Ryan, and it made sense when Ryan sent her off with a sarcastic, “Thank you so much for walking me here, Luce. Now why don’t you go dust something?”

Lucía huffed and left, closing the door after her. The bulldog jumped off the couch to greet the newcomer, and as the tall, young man petted it, Jon remarked, “Ah! The reunion of the two Georges!”

It was pretty funny that Ryan’s actual first name was George. Jon had nearly pissed himself laughing when he first found out.

“Fuck you, Walker,” Ryan said coolly. “Not my fault Brendon named the stupid dog George.”

“That’s because he reminds me of you,” Brendon remarked as he walked over to give Ryan a big hug. Brendon was one of the few people a diva like Ryan could stand invading his personal space. There it was again, another example of Brendon Urie’s infinite charm. Jon envied it just a little bit. “How was it Down Under?” Brendon asked Ryan.

“Hot beaches. Surfer boys. Topless girls. Fluffy koalas. Funny accents. Ate kangaroo and crocodile. Alcohol and way too much drugs,” Ryan recapped, and Jon noted Ryan seemed surprisingly clear-headed. Ryan’s eyes weren’t even dilated. Wow, that must have been a record. Ryan looked over to Spencer, who was now sitting on an armchair across from Jon, sipping on vodka. “How have the Smith brothers been?”

“The Urie brothers,” Brendon corrected him.

“Fuck that shit, Bren. Urie is just one N away from something entirely different,” Spencer noted. “No fucking way am I doing that. The Smith brothers.”

“Oh, because Smith is such a unique last name,” Brendon shot back.

“The Smith-Urie brothers,” Jon intervened, making peace.

Spencer and Brendon shrugged simultaneously. “That works,” they concluded.

They changed the subject, and Ryan took the spotlight like he often did. Jon was still the new guy in the room, though Ryan hadn’t been around for that much longer. Jon also envied Ryan’s ability to take control of any situation. So maybe Jon had many issues he never voiced when it came to their gang of four and the shooting stars of so-called friends trying to get a piece of their fame, money or lifestyle. Maybe. Most definitely. But he knew in the room were the three men on earth most likely to relate to him, so he kept quiet and did what he always did: he drank.

Before Jon knew it, they were in a club. They all looked hot as fuck, with Ryan’s shirt’s V-cut showing a long expanse of skin, Brendon rolling his ass in tight jeans, and Spencer’s jeans too fucking low on him, showing off hipbones that looked like an invitation. Jon’s arm was around Brendon’s neck, and they were chatting up two girls that they knew. Like Brendon had put it, the girls were friends of Naomi, Lynette’s friend, who was Nate’s ex-girlfriend, and Nate was the friend of a friend of Ryan’s.

“Right, of course! Lynette, great girl,” Jon nodded, vaguely seeing some blonde girl flash before his eyes. Everyone knew everyone through someone.

When Jon drank, he got the illusion he was a good dancer. He danced with one of the girls, groping and grinding. She was hot and dumb and a great way to say goodbye to 2008. He was hoping to maybe get a fuck out of her in the toilets but wasn’t sure if she was cheap enough for that. He might have to take her home. And if he could take her home... then maybe he could talk her into doing things his way. Really, sex was at its best when Jon had a partner with a sense of adventure. But, unfortunately, most girls weren’t into that stuff.

A hand took a hold of Jon’s shoulder, turning him around in the middle of the dancefloor. He tore his eyes off the girl in his arms. “Spencer, what’s up?” Jon shouted over the music at his friend who was looking at him with icy, blue eyes.

They had spent time in their VIP area for a while, and Spencer had been talking to other famous kids when Jon had last seen him. Now Spencer had gotten rid of the crowd and was sighing and looking anxious.

“Have you seen Brendon?”

“No,” Jon laughed, never letting go of the girl he was dancing with.

“Jonathan,” Spencer snapped impatiently.

He sighed and stopped dancing. The girl just laughed, catching her breath, and said, “I’m gonna go make a call!”

“Okay!” Jon yelled back. “Meet you at the bar?”

She nodded and kissed Jon on the mouth. Yep, this one was in the bag.

Spencer took the opportunity to drag Jon from the dancefloor back to the VIP area.

“Dude, don’t worry so much,” Jon sighed as he took a seat across from Spencer. Spencer shook his head and fiddled with his Sidekick.

“He’s not answering his –”

“Dude, come on!” Jon laughed.

Spencer sighed. “Okay. Okay, he just… he went out last night too, okay? And he over-did it, and, fuck, he’s been on a roll since Christmas Day! I told him to stay near me and –”

“Seen Ross around?”

“No! God, not the fucking point!”

“Here’s a crazy idea,” Jon smirked in his drunken state. “Ross has been in Australia for three fucking weeks. He’s not around… Brendon’s not around… huh. I wonder what _that_ could mean.”

Spencer stared, and Jon hated how unpredictable Spencer was. For a second, he was sure Spencer would punch him for suggesting what he had, but instead, Spencer burst out laughing. “Jon, you have your moments.”

“Never mind thanking me,” Jon laughed. “How long until midnight?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Any resolutions?”

“Me?” Spencer laughed and shook his head. “Hell, no. We make predictions, not resolutions, remember?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Jon smirked. “What do we have so far this year?”

“Well, my prediction is that Brendon will make a home video that will end up on the internet,” Spencer grinned. “And Ryan said his prediction is that you will have sex with a man.”

Jon made a face. “Yeah, Ross can keep on wishing. I’m not gay.”

It was perfectly normal not to want to stick your cock into a guy’s ass or not want to have a guy stick a cock up your ass. At least Jon thought so. His friends? Well, Brendon had once said that the type he went for was beautiful people, and Spencer and Ryan seemed to agree. Jon didn’t mind, whatever, really not his business. But the ridiculous thing was that with these guys? He totally got mocked for being straight. What the fuck had happened to morals and his generation, Jon didn’t know.

Spencer lifted an eyebrow. “Who said anything about being gay? I mean, I enjoy having anal sex with men. It doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

Jon didn’t quite see the logic behind Spencer’s statement but said, “You know what? My prediction for 2009 is that we see Ryan Ross cry.”

“Good one,” Spencer nodded, and Jon was quite proud of his prediction. He hoped to god it’d come true too.

“And my prediction is you –”

“Tsk, tsk, Jon,” Spencer stopped him. “Don’t try to tell me my future. You’ll never get it right.”

“True,” Jon grinned, holding onto the table to push himself back up. The world was spinning a little. “I need to go take a piss before meeting up with my lady. How long until midnight?”

“Seven minutes.”

“Happy New Year, Spencer,” Jon said, slurring on the S a little bit. He reached over the table and kissed Spencer’s cheek, something he would never, ever do sober. Spencer only smiled back, like he knew Jon adored him just like everyone else did. It was not a far fetch that when Jon was drunk, he acted around Spencer like he wished he could act all the time. Alcohol gave him the excuse to ignore the walls Spencer always put up and pretend that they were close friends who understood each other.

“Happy New Year,” Spencer returned.

Jon stumbled out of the VIP area and to the toilets. He entered the men’s restroom and clutched the porcelain of the urinal to steady himself as he got his dick out. The world was still spinning slightly, but in a good way. He washed his hands, fixed his hair, and looked at his drunken reflection. He swayed and said, “Lookin’ good, Walker, lookin’ good.”

He got back out, remembering to zip up last minute. His eyes landed on two people who were standing next to the staff door in the corner. He began to walk over as he recognised Brendon, to wish him a happy new year but stopped as he realised the two men were fighting. The other man, Jon had never seen before. He was heavily-built with tattoos decorating his arms, and at first, Jon thought he was the bouncer. Jon saw him give Brendon a push, shouting something right at Brendon’s face.

You did not yell at Brendon fucking Urie. You did not _touch_ either one of the Smith-Urie brothers without permission.

Jon marched over, bewildered by the sight. The second he did, the two broke apart. The huge man said nothing, just stared at Brendon and backed away with a cold smirk on his face. Jon looked back and forth between them, asking, “What’s going on?”

“A misunderstanding,” Brendon said, shrugging it off. Brendon was drunk, naturally, and he cast a dark look at the man who now disappeared into the club.

“You sure?” Jon frowned, slightly worried. The man’s appearance had screamed danger. No shit, that guy had looked like a human smuggler, a drug dealer, a weapon seller, you name it, that guy would’ve been it. That guy didn’t belong to their world, he belonged to the shitty areas of Queens or the Bronx.

“Yeah, man,” Brendon replied, rubbing his neck. “Nothing at all. Nothing. Whatever.”

“I thought you were with Ross.”

“Oh,” Brendon said, as if suddenly remembering the existence of Ryan Ross. “What time is it?”

Just then a shout echoed through the club, a roar of “One minute!”

“Shit,” they both said, trying to gather their thoughts.

“I gotta find Ryan,” Brendon said. “Who will get to give the biggest diva of New York his New Year’s kiss? I will, fucking well will. That kiss is fucking mine,” he grinned stupidly. Jon laughed, and they high-fived each other, missing by a mile. The memory of seeing Brendon fight with the guy was already slipping away from Jon.

Jon made his way to the bar, just in time for the countdown. He found the girl he had danced with and proceeded to start off 2009 by making out with her. He knew that somewhere a drunken Brendon Urie was courting a drugged up Ryan Ross in a spot where no one could catch the two men in the act, and that Spencer Smith was either looking in on them all, smirking with a drink, or Spencer himself had someone draping over him because Spencer was a guy who never had to feel lonely.

The club exploded as the clock turned to midnight, confetti flying from the ceiling and the rich, beautiful scenesters shouting and screaming. Jon laughed into the girl’s mouth and said, “Happy new year, baby.”

A new year. A new beginning.

They were all living lives other people only dreamt about. They were on top of the world, and Jon knew that the way down was a long one from the top, but he didn’t worry.

What could possibly go wrong?

 


	2. Gunfire

Speed.

Ryan stopped mid-way, changing direction and swerving to the left. He was fast, but not fast enough as the tennis ball flew past the racket in his outstretched hand.

“Damn it!” he shouted as a cheer came from the other side of the indoor court. Ryan stopped to catch his breath, hands on his hips, and stared down his opponent. “Don’t look so smug, Brendon,” he snapped angrily.

“I am so, so kicking your ass right now,” Brendon called back, wiping his forehead to a sweat wristband. Just because Brendon had expensive tennis gear didn’t make the guy a fucking professional.

“I’m having an off day,” Ryan muttered, now getting ready to serve. He bounced the ball against the floor before throwing it up above his head and swinging his arm, hitting the ball hard. It flew straight to the net, and Ryan swore heavily. Brendon pranced on the other side, blinking at Ryan with big eyes, as if asking, “You gonna serve me or what?”

“Matt,” Ryan called to his friend who was standing in the sidelines, talking to someone over the phone and half-heartedly following the match. “Could you, like, go get the ball? Make yourself useful?”

The brown-haired girl covered the phone, and her eyes narrowed. “I came to see you in shorts, not to be your ball girl.”

Brendon laughed, and Ryan looked down at his attire. He looked back up, cocked his head and asked, “Like what you see?”

Matt gave him a truly disgusted look and turned back to speaking to one of her friends over the phone. She wasn’t into tennis, so Ryan didn’t know why she had tagged along. Nothing else to do, probably. She was the type of girl who was everyone’s friend but no one’s best friend. Ryan wasn’t sure if she knew that about herself, and if she did, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t sliced her wrists already. The thought of not being the most talked about person in the room just about killed Ryan.

This time he served an ace, and Brendon blinked in surprise. “Take that,” Ryan shot with a smirk.

When he and Brendon came to their gym to play some tennis, they never really kept count of who was winning. Ryan secretly knew Brendon probably won most of the time, but he never admitted to it.

“Meet you guys out front,” Matt told them when they parted ways in the hallway. The guys headed for the showers, and she began to walk back out to the reception area. A sweaty, muscular man walked past them as they parted, and Matt craned her neck as she checked him out. Ryan checked the guy out as well, and he was pretty sure he could totally get the guy, right from under Matt’s nose too. Her family’s money compensated for her girl-next-door looks, but she still couldn’t get guys like that. Not if they could get it on with Ryan, anyway.

He and Brendon hit the dressing rooms, and he was distracted by Brendon slowly removing his clothes. He stared at Brendon’s shoulder blades and his back, finally moving down to Brendon’s luxurious ass as Brendon stepped out of his shorts. Brendon’s hands flew over his naked form, and Ryan couldn’t look away. As if sensing that he was being stared at, Brendon looked over his shoulder, and Ryan’s eyes snapped back to Brendon’s face.

“Don’t start a scandal, Ryan,” Brendon purred, dropping the towel in his hands and bending over to pick it up, his ass pointed at Ryan like an invitation.

Brendon would love to fuck in their gym. Brendon was like that.

“Trust me,” Ryan said in a low voice, tearing his eyes away from Brendon, “when I decide to start a scandal, you’ll be the first to know.”

It was the first week back to university after the holidays. Not that it would have made a difference to Brendon, seeing as Brendon did nothing. But Ryan was now back to studying, telling people about his trip to Australia, and how it had really been an awful bore, and, oh, you have never left the country at all? Oh, well, that was a shame, wasn’t it?

He had class that afternoon, but they went out for a quick lunch. Brendon kept asking him to go shopping, trying to convince Ryan to skip class. Ryan kept sipping his Dutch beer as he knew he enjoyed his life as a Philosophy major just a bit more when he was tipsy. He enjoyed his life the best when he was on cocaine, though, and he was already counting the days for the weekend so he could get fucked. It was funny, how the weekends seemed to get further and further apart. These days Ryan took his first hit on Thursday nights, then on a roll until Sunday, and he survived the week with alcohol and pot, with the withdrawal being just and just bearable.

“I really can’t go shopping,” Ryan declined. He was attempting to be a good student for once, a task which he knew he’d get bored of within a week. Brendon pouted and leaned back in his chair, sipping on his Bloody Mary. Maybe it was worth pointing out that they were having a liquid lunch.

“I’ll call up Spencer,” Brendon decided, and Ryan might have felt a stab of something inside his chest. He took a shot of tequila and shared a taxi with Matt.

“You know,” Matt began as they sat in the backseat with Ryan looking at the buildings flying past them, “I found this guy whose cut is much better than Doyle’s.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asked, giving her a side glance. “Is he trustworthy?”

“A lot of people vouch for him. It’s really good stuff.”

“Alright,” he concluded, “give me his phone number.”

Ryan would be damned if he wasn’t getting the best cocaine in Manhattan.

He always got looks when he attended his classes. They all knew him, of course. Sometimes, when Brendon and Spencer made the tabloids (which was all the time), Ryan could be seen in the same picture, somewhere in the background. He didn’t like being in the background. But as it was, he didn’t have a brainless whore for a mother, or a reality TV show plastic surgeon for a father (David Smith had done two seasons of the series, having earned the title ‘The Michelangelo of Hollywood’ before calling it quits and focusing on slicing celebrities up again). Ryan’s father was a Wall Street stock broker, and his mother was in real estate. They had their own companies and the money poured in in eight digit numbers. Ryan wasn’t famous by default. Luckily, Ryan had his stunning looks and his parents’ money, and he often thought it a winning combination. Besides, he wanted to be famous for being Ryan Ross, not for being the child of a celebrity.

Ryan sat still and took notes, smiling to himself as the others around him wished they could come to class with a Louis Vuitton bag. Brendon crossed his mind again and again, and he tried to concentrate.

In the evening, Ryan could only think of the Smith-Urie brothers having the time of their lives. He called them up, abandoned his studies and went off to the club. He couldn’t stand people having the time of their lives without him.

He looked good, but then again, he always looked good. Jon was there too, and he gave Ryan a cordial smile and a wave, a beer bottle in his hand, the other around Brendon.

“He’s touching Brendon again,” Ryan said as a way of greeting Spencer.

“Yep,” Spencer noted sourly as they watched Jon and Brendon get more drinks for everyone.

“Walker’s a closet gay.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, I suppose,” Spencer replied.

Ryan hummed under his breath and was sure his prediction for 2009 would come true. He kept his eyes on Brendon because Brendon rather honestly was the most attractive guy he had ever met. Brendon was flirting with a guy, and Ryan liked watching Brendon work. See, there was something about Brendon Urie not many knew, but Ryan just happened to know. Brendon _loved_ cock. Earlier that day, when Brendon had flirted with him in the gym, Ryan had known Brendon wanted it badly. Well, it was hours later now, and Brendon must have been fucking gagging for it.

It was always the same. Brendon picked out one of the new ones. Brendon liked the new ones, for whatever unknown reason. Brendon cocked his hips, talked lively and smiled like there was nothing he would rather be doing than talking to you. And the newbie stood there, wondering what a nice guy Brendon was, blown away by the attention. They knew Brendon, of course, everyone did, and some of them were a bit star struck. Brendon flicked his hair, ordered a few drinks for both, and flirted. Brendon liked biting on his bottom lip when he pretended to be thinking about something very deeply. Really, all it did was make you desperate to kiss the man. Ryan knew about that.

Once Brendon knew he had found a winner, he began the touching. Ryan kept talking to Spencer with one eye on the ritual he’d witnessed on the nights Brendon wanted to be fucked hard and ruthlessly. Brendon placed his hand on the shoulder of the young man he had picked out, a good-looking man. Ryan approved of the choice. He approved, and when Brendon leaned in to whisper into the guy’s ear, he had to look away. The gesture felt too familiar, the invitation Ryan knew Brendon was whispering right now. Ryan liked to think it was his alone, but it wasn’t.

Nothing of Brendon Urie was his. Ryan knew it, so why did the realisation feel like a blunt knife stabbed to his insides?

Turned out, Brendon invited the newbie back to his. Ryan had arrived late, the guys were already heading home. Jon said something about a jamming session with other musicians in the morning. Ryan didn’t mind Jon. A pretty harmless guy, all in all. Maybe a bit too uninteresting to hang out with the rest of them, but Brendon liked him.

Ryan invited himself along to go back to the Smith-Uries, and Spencer was quite drunk when they got there. “Shh. Don’t want to wake up the old folks,” Spencer said when Brendon opened the door, and they poured in. Spencer and Brendon laughed, trying to remember the combination of the alarm system.

There were ten of them, all ready for an after party. Matt was there, and Ryan only then noticed her. He hadn’t seen her at the club. Ryan vaguely knew the rest, but he was keeping his attention on Brendon and the boy of the hour. Brendon was kissing the guy now that they were no longer in public, and no one could catch the act on camera and sell it to the magazines. The people there were themselves either rich or famous, mostly both, and they could therefore be trusted to understand what privacy was worth.

They moved to the boys’ quarters, and Brendon and the boy disappeared into Brendon’s bedroom. Ryan took the time, twenty-five past one. Matt came over, drunk, and they went to one of the bathrooms down the hall to see if the new dealer’s coke was any good. It was good.

“Shit,” Ryan commented, rubbing his nose.

“I know,” Matt laughed hysterically.

They walked back out and almost bumped into Lucía who was in her nightgown. She stared at them in bewilderment, and Matt clung to Ryan, gasping for breath in between fits of laughter.

“Mr. Ross, Miss Matteson,” the maid said swiftly.

“Hey, Luce,” Ryan said, pulling Matt after him. Lucía kept staring at them disapprovingly, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t witnessed dozens of her boys’ parties. Grace Urie-Smith and David Smith had their bedroom on the other side of the gigantic condo. The parties didn’t bother them.

Spencer had put music on in the living room, and two girls were dancing on the coffee table. Ryan was feeling good, fucking good, and he was more than enjoying the party. Quarter to two, Brendon was still in his bedroom. Ryan sat down, but it was hard to enjoy the night when his mind kept buzzing. He shouldn’t have tried the coke, it was Monday. Thursday was okay. He had just wanted to try it out, though, no big deal. He might have to take another hit just to make sure.

The people around him were all a blur, and he went over to Spencer, who was laughing and talking with some guy Ryan didn’t know. “Lucía saw us. Don’t think she liked it,” he informed Spencer. “You want a hit? I’ve got some really good shit.”

“Nah,” Spencer said. “I stay clear of that shit, you know that. And don’t worry about Lucía. She’s wrapped around my little finger.”

“What’s the time?”

“Two.”

Thirty-five minutes of Brendon and that guy in the bedroom. Ryan wandered over to a girl he knew, and he talked about philosophy, promptly proving the non-existence of a god in five minutes. His mind was moving from one thing to the next, and he felt so fucking good that he almost forgot to keep an eye on the door.

The door had been closed for an hour and five minutes when Brendon’s boy toy came out. The guy was still buttoning his shirt, looking somewhere between pleased and pissed off. Ryan felt relieved at the sight. It was a good sign they came out angry. It was the look they got when Brendon told them to get the fuck out. Brendon had gotten fucked; he didn’t want them to stick around. Good. Ryan dreaded the day Brendon found one he liked so much that he asked them to stay.

Ryan put away the glass he was holding and began to make his way over. Suddenly, Matt appeared in front of him, a twisted smile on her face. “Ryan! Ryan, we’ve known each other for what?”

He paused and frowned. “Since your family moved to New York and our fathers decided we had to be friends, being business partners as they are.”

“Since we were seventeen was the correct answer,” Matt slurred with a slight sway. “And, okay, you’re twenty-two now, and I’m twenty-two now, and you probably think that I don’t know you at all. And I don’t!” she exclaimed, and she kept laughing, her eyes dilated.

“Don’t get philosophical on me,” Ryan nearly pleaded.

Matt stopped him by leaning closer and whispering, “Look… does anyone else know what happened in Australia?”

Ryan paled slightly but immediately got angry. “No. And we agreed never to discuss it again.”

“But –”

“No buts. Never, Matt, fucking never,” he spat hotly.

He wanted to hear no more and began to walk past her, but Matt placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ryan. Your secret is safe with me,” she grinned before letting go of him. “Now go on,” she said, motioning with her hand. “He’s probably waiting for you anyway.”

Ryan could feel humiliation stirring in him, but he thought he had made it clear that Australia was never, ever to be brought up again. Matt had one on him, and normally, Ryan would have known he could trust her. Now, he felt sudden paranoia. What if Matt told everyone? What if she couldn’t keep her mouth shut? Was she really his friend at all?

Matt began to stagger towards the cabinet for her next drink, almost falling over as she did so.

Nah. She wouldn’t tell anyone.

Ryan pushed the conversation out of his mind, and he quickly glanced around the room. He knew that every night had a turning point, when an onlooker would begin to pity them instead of envying them. They were doing a balancing act right then, and Ryan thought they were about to fall on the side of being pitied, so he quickly walked into Brendon’s bedroom, closing the door after him.

The lights were on, and the voices came through muffled. Brendon was lying on his queen-sized bed with the sheets hanging low on his naked form with his eyes closed like he was completely unaware of the party just on the other side of the wall. A slight sheen of sweat covered him, and Ryan thought that he almost looked like a Greek statue when he stayed still. Brendon was breathing in deep, and the room smelled of sex.

Ryan walked over slowly, stopping at the end of the bed and letting the tips of his fingers brush the dirtied sheets. “Hey,” he whispered.

Brendon twitched a little and opened his eyes. He stretched and made a purring sound, and the crimson sheet on his waist moved lower, exposing dark, curly hair. “Hi,” he said softly with a grin.

Ryan walked to the side, constantly keeping his eyes on the man lying on the bed. “You drunk?”

“Maybe a little,” Brendon replied with a tiny shrug and a mischievous smile. “You high?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Bad boy.”

The initial euphoria had faded away, and Ryan was coming down. He hadn’t taken much, after all, it was still just a Monday. Tuesday morning, technically. But he could feel the cocaine in his system, making his nerves tingle in pleasure. It left his mind in a blissful state where everything felt a bit dull with strange bursts of colour every now and then. Mostly, everything still just felt good, and he was about to feel better.

He quickly pulled his shirt over his head. “Was he good?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral. He unzipped himself swiftly, his mind flashing pictures after pictures, all lasting a nanosecond, and within two seconds, his mind had pictured Brendon and the newbie fucking from start to finish. Ryan undressed himself all the way, opening a drawer of the nightstand and pulling out a condom.

“He was alright. I’m tired, though. We fucked twice.”

“Too bad,” Ryan noted, now having rolled the condom on. He pulled the covers aside and crawled on top of Brendon. Brendon’s body was warm and smelled like that guy. Brendon didn’t protest, just kept his eyes closed as he smiled. Ryan pulled Brendon’s legs apart, bending them over his stomach. He brushed his fingers over Brendon’s entrance, feeling him wet and still stretched. It made him just a little bit sick.

Ryan positioned himself as the foreplay had already been done. It had fucking well been done, twice apparently. He entered Brendon quickly in one swift movement. Brendon’s mouth dropped and his eyes opened, and Ryan never got tired of the way Brendon groaned when he first pushed in. It wasn’t meant to flatter anyone; it was simply that Ryan was a lot to take. Even Brendon had to groan and arch into it, catch his breath as Ryan filled him in a way he knew the newbie hadn’t. Brendon pushed up, moaning like the whore that Ryan knew he was.

Ryan feverishly leaned down to connect their lips, and his hips began thrusting into the body beneath him. Brendon’s cock was already hardening between them, and it filled Ryan with anger. Anyone could turn Brendon on. Anyone could be here on top of him because Brendon loved cock. Damn fucking whore, but Ryan had always known it.

He closed his eyes and felt Brendon’s wet lips against his, Brendon’s tongue dancing with his eagerly. Brendon was tight and hot around him, and it felt so fucking good. They looked good together. They were the two best looking people Ryan knew.

It wasn’t a problem. Ryan enjoyed sex, and god knew he had done his share of sleeping around. That’s how they had come to like each other when they first had met: they were so much alike.

“God, you fuck me so good,” Brendon said in between kisses, but Ryan barely heard the compliment. He was going on automatic, his body doing the deed that he had to do. He had to. Brendon liked it fast and hard, and Ryan kept slamming in. He wanted to come. He wanted it to be over. Fuck, he wanted this nightmare to be over.

Brendon’s cock was hard between them, and Ryan directed Brendon’s hand on it, urging Brendon to touch himself. Brendon did, and he moaned so loudly that Ryan couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You’re such a fucking whore, Brendon.”

Brendon laughed, placing one hand on the back of Ryan’s head and pulling their lips together again. “So are you,” Brendon replied, and Ryan put more force behind his thrusts. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Brendon began to mumble, and Ryan closed his eyes, fucking his Greek statue. He wanted Brendon to feel him the following morning, not the newbie.

Ryan came, the orgasm making his entire body tremble. Brendon kissed him passionately, and Brendon was good at this part. He always held Ryan, touched him, made Ryan feel safe to fall apart and lose control. It was treacherous because Ryan knew his time was up.

He put his own hand on Brendon’s leaking cock, and together, they brought Brendon to climax. Brendon looked the most beautiful when he came: crying out, helpless in the overwhelming pleasure, muscles clenching around Ryan’s cock and Ryan’s name on his lips. Ryan’s name right now. Thirty minutes ago, it had been someone else.

“You’re so beautiful, Ry,” Brendon sighed with his eyes slightly glassy. Ryan kissed him with all he had, knowing he would have to pull out, get dressed, and get the fuck out.

He could hear the exhilarated, drunken laughter of the guests through the bedroom door, but his mind only kept repeating Brendon’s name on repeat. Brendon made him want to stay, but Brendon wanted him to go. Brendon was beautiful, Brendon was a whore. Brendon, Brendon, Brendon…

Ryan closed his eyes and wondered when exactly his life had turned into such a distasteful farce.

* * *

Brendon was going to be late if he wasn’t careful. Punctuality wasn’t his thing, but this was one time it would be unwise to be late. He fixed his hair quickly, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“You’ve got this,” he told himself. He was a tiny bit nervous, which made him all the more determined to act calm.

He walked out of his bathroom to the bedroom, snatching the brown shoulder bag on his bed. He zipped it up, making the numerous bundles of one hundred dollar bills disappear from view. He didn’t need to count it again; he had checked twice already how much money was in there. It was the right amount to the dollar.

Brendon aimed for a quick exit, but the marble floors made the soles of his Converse shoes squeak like two dying ducks. One red Converse shoe, one blue. He liked to mismatch. He and Spencer had started doing it years before, when they had had a habit of changing the other pair amongst themselves. Then Spencer’s feet had gotten bigger than Brendon’s, so they had stopped doing it.

The sound of his steps stirred the people in the kitchen. Brendon walked past, but his stepfather’s voice called, “Brendon! Come in for breakfast, won’t you?”

He drew in a breath and took a few steps back, poking his head through. Spencer and David were eating by the small breakfast table, Lucía was by the cooker. Both men looked at him with the same expression, one with blue eyes, the other with brown eyes. David and Spencer looked a lot alike.

“Sorry, dad, I’m running late,” Brendon apologised.

“Nonsense,” David said, and Brendon knew the tone. He reluctantly walked in, taking his seat by the table. Spencer kept reading the newspaper, and David kept eating the fried egg on his plate. “Nice to see you up so early.”

“The early bird catches the worm,” Brendon mused, taking the bowl Lucía offered him. He grabbed the box of Cheerios on the table and groaned. “Spencer, you’ve finished the Cheerios again. Goddammit, you always –”

“Tough,” Spencer noted.

“Asshole.”

“Now, now,” David interrupted them with a fatherly chuckle that was so pretentious Brendon wanted to vomit. “Any more of the cereal, Lucía?”

As always, Lucía was one step ahead of them all and passed Brendon milk and a new box of Cheerios. Lucía was their maid, cook, cleaner, and whatever else. She was the only good thing to have come out of Brendon’s mother’s third marriage, and luckily for Brendon, Grace had persuaded the maid to come with them after the divorce. Brendon had been six at the time. Lucía had once come to his school play, too, when his mother forgot. Brendon had made an awesome Peter Pan.

Brendon poured Cheerios into the bowl and gave Spencer a “ha ha” look, and Spencer just ignored him. Normally, Brendon would have started pouting and moaning and bickering, driving Spencer insane about something as ridiculous as Cheerios, but now he wanted to make his appearance and go. His shoulder bag was at his feet, full of cash.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Brendon asked to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

“I took the morning off,” David replied. He lowered his voice and said, “I’m taking your mother to… to the doctor’s.”

David cast a quick look around, which was unnecessary. No one else was there anyway, and Lucía more than knew. She lived with them, for god’s sake; she if anyone knew that Grace needed to be committed in the least. Brendon scoffed a little, felt like making a remark that David was a doctor too, but didn’t.

David had to make sure Grace went to therapy. Brendon wondered if it helped at all. He knew that Ryan went to therapy weekly, and Ryan had said his parents insisted on it as a precaution. Nothing was wrong with Ryan, as far as Brendon knew, so he didn’t know if therapy helped. In any case, Brendon had only heard Grace declare she was far too insightful and smart for therapy, and that it would be of no fucking use to her.

Brendon didn’t care either way.

“Well, I’m off,” he declared with his mouth full of food. He swallowed, wiped his mouth and added, “A bit of shopping.”

Spencer looked up from the paper. “I’ll come with.”

“No,” Brendon declined instantly. “No, um… I want some Brendon time. Brendon shopping.”

“Suit yourself then,” Spencer muttered in a hurt tone, and Brendon felt bad. He didn’t want to upset Spencer, even if he had been willing to start a fight over Cheerios a minute before.

“It’s just –”

“Whatever, Brendon. I have friends of my own. Got better things to do than hang out with my brother all the fucking time.”

“Never complained before, you asswipe.”

“Spencer! Brendon!” David interrupted. Both men shut their mouths, and Spencer just shrugged it off like he didn’t care. “God. You know, I remember when you two met. You were both ten-years-old, and you two just couldn’t get along! The fights!” David sighed exasperatedly with a roll of his eyes. “Grace and I were at a loss with you two, we really were. And just like that you two became best friends! Have been for years too. But lately, you two have been arguing just like you did over a decade ago,” David said and shook his head, and Brendon wondered how David had even been able to observe that. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but you better sort it out. We need to be a family right now.”

Brendon nodded and briefly looked at the fourth seat by the table. He didn’t ask where their mother was because they all knew she was in bed, most likely sleeping off last night’s booze. She was having a down phase, which honestly wasn’t much better than her up phases.

Still, it was rich of David to lecture them. David was never, ever home, and if David had decided to play the concerned father and husband today, it didn’t make up for all the times David didn’t give a damn.

“You two better get your act together. Remember that Grandpa is coming to visit us soon. Not a word about Grace to him, alright?” David asked as he stood up. He straightened his suit, and Brendon looked at the fake smile adorning his face. The Smith-Uries were happy. The Smith-Uries were so, so fucking good at pretending they were happy. And Grace was their deepest, darkest secret. The press would eat them alive if Grace’s alcoholism ever got out.

Well, David thought that Grace was the worst of their worries. Brendon looked down at his shoulder bag and realised that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

David ruffled both of their heads and handed them both a few hundred dollars bills for no particular reason. He left to convince Grace to get out of bed and go see her therapist, and Brendon thought it was sweet of him to try. David was husband number five, but he seemed to be a keeper. Brendon had been the product of marriage number two, which had lasted an astounding seven months. David, though, had put up with Grace for ten years, or Grace had put up with him. Brendon didn’t know which.

“Wish he didn’t touch the hair,” Spencer said with a displeased look after David had walked out.

“Cómelo,” Lucía ordered Spencer, pointing at the breakfast that had gone cold, before she left to make their beds and clean their quarters. Spencer looked at the fried egg and stabbed it with a fork.

“You’re counting calories again,” Brendon noted.

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

Spencer cast him a nasty look and pushed the plate away from himself. “I am not. I just don’t feel like eating. You’re such a know-it-all.”

Brendon inched his chair closer to Spencer, giving him a long, long look. “You look really beautiful today,” he said quietly. His voice almost broke under the weight of it; that’s how much he meant it. Spencer wrinkled his nose, and Brendon could see Spencer was in between annoyed and flattered.

The kitchen was empty, they were by themselves. David was right; they had been fighting way more than usual, but Brendon had been stressed. It felt unnatural to keep secrets from Spencer, but Brendon had no choice here. Brendon was sure the fights were his fault because nothing was going on with Spencer that he didn’t know about. At least he thought so.

Brendon leaned in closer and kissed Spencer’s cheek gently. Spencer pulled back, eyes on his plate. “Don’t.”

“Just a kiss on the cheek.”

Spencer smiled to himself. “It’s never just a kiss on the cheek. Not with you, Bren.”

Brendon didn’t like the shame he could see in Spencer’s eyes. The shame hadn’t been there before, but now it was. Guilt, well, the guilt had always been there. But guilt came from wanting to do things others said you shouldn’t be doing. Shame came from wanting to do things you yourself said you shouldn’t be doing.

Brendon felt sad. It had been easier before.

“Whatever,” he concluded, and Spencer’s blue eyes shot up at him.

“Just not here,” Spencer explained apologetically.

“I know what you’re saying,” Brendon said and stood up. “You’re right. Just... yeah.” He had just wanted a kiss. “Later, bro.”

Spencer nodded. “Later.”

Brendon walked back out, clutching the shoulder bag to his side. He got out his Sidekick and called Tom to get the car out front.

“Mr. Urie,” Tom said professionally as he held the door of the car open. Brendon nodded, letting the passers-by watch with interest as he got in. He couldn’t even walk the distance from their building to the car without someone’s eyes widening in recognition. He knew he looked a lot like his mother. He wished he didn’t.

Once Tom had the car going and Brendon had pressed down the screen separating him from the driver, Tom said, “We going, man?”

“Yeah. You know the way.”

Tom grinned. “Sweet.”

Brendon laughed, tried to make this seem like just another one of their adventures. They drove to one of the underground parking halls in Manhattan where they switched cars. They got into an old Ford, and Brendon asked, “This yours?”

“Yeah, used to be my dad’s. Sweet ride, this one,” Tom said, and the car started on the second try. Brendon pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and put on sunglasses. He couldn’t risk being recognised where they were going. Tom didn’t have to worry about that type of thing, and they crossed the Queensboro Bridge with Tom singing along to a song on the radio.

Ryan called, asking to meet up for some drinks, pot, gym, shopping, movies, the list was long. Brendon declined every invitation until Ryan almost hung up on him. Ryan had been clingy lately. Brendon realised that once he had taken care of this mess, he had a lot of patching up to do. Make nice with Spencer, invite Jon around, have sex with Ryan. That would solve just about everything.

As usual, Tom parked the car in the parking space closest to the doors of the bar. The sign outside promised lap dancing and stripteases, and Brendon walked into the strip joint with a familiar nod to the bouncer.

It was another world inside the small club. The bad German techno thudded through the air, the lights were dim, and no matter when Brendon and Tom visited the place, there always was a woman on the main stage in nothing but a thong and a bra, shaking her ass. It was quiet as it was just a little bit after noon and the place had just opened up, but Tom didn’t seem to think it too early for a lap dance.

“I’ll go ask if Sapphire is working,” Tom said.

“Yeah, I’ll go have a word with Skinny,” Brendon said casually.

Tom nodded and was off to find his favourite stripper. Brendon could see Tom had a chivalric “I’ll save her” thing going on with Sapphire. Who knew what her real name was. Point was that she was a stripper by choice. Tom would only end up heartbroken with his naïve good intentions, but Brendon let him. It was cute to watch.

Right now, though, Brendon needed to find Skinny. He headed for the staff door, and one of Skinny’s men let him through with a sadistic grin. They all knew what Brendon was there for. Brendon walked along the corridor, passing a dressing room where a stripper was putting on a bright red wig, and he clutched his shoulder bag even tighter.

“Here to see Skinny,” Brendon informed the man standing outside Skinny’s office.

“He’s been waitin’ for you,” the man said and let Brendon inside.

Skinny was sitting behind a desk with a handful of his men sitting on the couches pressed against the walls. Despite being called Skinny, Skinny wasn’t a thin man; he was obese. Brendon had heard a rumour that Skinny’s real name might be Lawrence. Skinny’s dirt brown hair was making way to a growing bald patch, but he was early-forties at the most. He was always touching his pimp moustache that decorated his fat upper lip, and his eyes were too small for his head.

Brendon was a beautiful man. Based on looks alone, he should have nothing to do with men like Skinny.

“Urie. Our favourite celebrity,” Skinny said in a low voice that came deep from his oversized belly.

“How you doing, Skinny?” Brendon asked casually. His heart was beating faster now, but this wasn’t going to turn out nasty. It wouldn’t. No, it would be fine... just fine.

“I’ll be better if you’ve brought me what’s mine.”

Brendon nodded. He took his shoulder bag and unzipped it. The others watched as he walked to Skinny’s desk, turned the bag upside down, and shook it until all of the cash had fallen out.

“Count it,” he offered. “It’s exactly what I owe you.”

Skinny’s beady little eyes seemed to shine as he saw the money, but he casually leaned back in his chair like he wasn’t bothered. Brendon felt angry just then, because Skinny didn’t deserve the money. So, technically, it was David and Grace’s money, and therefore Brendon didn’t deserve it either, but now, it was definitely in the wrong hands.

Brendon had played poker with Skinny and lost. He had been drunk at the time, but Skinny hadn’t listened. He had insisted that Brendon pay up. Skinny had men, men with guns and fists and connections to some fucking nasty people, and Brendon had been left with no choice. Especially not when one of Skinny’s men had cornered him at New Year’s, scaring the living shit out of him.

A one off. He had fucked up and learned his lesson. Skinny had the money, Brendon was off the hook. He only needed to make sure David didn’t notice that money had gone missing.

“So,” Brendon said, already feeling better. “That’s it, Skinny. You have a nice day.”

Brendon backed to the door, and Skinny said, “Wait.”

Instantly, all of Skinny’s goons stood up, as if having received a silent signal. Brendon looked to his sides, his heart pounding. One of the men moved to stand in front of the door, blocking his way.

“Your money’s six days late.”

Brendon stared at him. “Skinny, I told you! You wanted cash! You know how hard it was for me to get forty grand in cash? Fuck!” he said exasperatedly, hoping to get sympathy. “It wasn’t easy, man.”

“Six days late,” Skinny repeated, not listening at all. “We gave you a week, we were feeling generous. But you went over with six days. Now, an interest ran on those days. Ten percent.”

“Bullshit,” Brendon countered, hoping to call off Skinny’s bluff.

Skinny had pulled out a notepad and was scribbling on it. “This is what you owe us now, on top of what you just paid us.”

Brendon felt anger rising in him, and he walked back to Skinny’s desk to see the figure the man had written down. His jaw dropped.

“No way. Ten percent interest? No way, you never said a fucking thing to me,” he said. The whole mess was starting to turn outrageous.

“One week. After that, there will be a ten percent interest on the interest until you pay up. There. I told you about the fucking interest now, kid.”

Brendon let out a shocked laugh and got ready to argue his case. He shoved the notepad back towards Skinny. “Not happening. I paid up every cent. Interest on interest? No way, man. No way.”

Skinny looked at one of his men, and suddenly, the man had Brendon pressed against the wall and was twisting Brendon’s arm painfully behind his back. Brendon groaned in discomfort, and he heard Skinny’s voice say, “We don’t care how famous you are. You mess with me, your days are fucking numbered.”

Skinny’s man twisted Brendon’s arm even more, and Brendon gasped, “Okay! Okay, I’ll get you your fucking interest!”

The man let go of Brendon, and Brendon held his throbbing arm to his chest. Skinny was looking pleased, and Brendon wanted to yell that he better never touch him again. The only person ever to have assaulted him like that was Spencer, and that was different because they had been twelve and fighting over the last slice of pizza. But these men were criminals. Skinny was involved in a lot of shady shit. Unlike Spencer, then, Brendon had no hopes of Skinny having a change of heart and letting him have to last slice after all.

“If you don’t pay us,” Skinny started slowly, “then picture the headline ‘Brendon Urie’s gambling problem’. I quite like it myself.”

It was only then that Brendon felt like he had been cornered. He visualised the headline with the appropriate picture of him, the scandal that would follow, the paparazzi at his heels, David yelling at him, Grace crying, the Smith-Urie empire falling down because he had been drunk and thought he had had the winning hand in a game of poker.

“Don’t go to the press,” Brendon said quietly. It was obvious he was pleading.

“Pay up,” was all Skinny had to say. “You’ve got a week.”

Brendon grabbed his now empty shoulder bag and hurried to walk out.


	3. Smoke

Smoke.

Spencer let his eyes follow the strips of white and grey entwining and spiralling inside the bong. George was lying on his lap fast asleep, jerking every now and then as he dreamed his dog dreams. Spencer wondered if inhaling the traces of their weed was harmful for the animal.

“Do you think George’ll get high?” he asked, interrupting Ryan and Jon’s raised voices.

Ryan turned his dilated eyes to the couch where Spencer was sitting next to Brendon. Brendon was quiet, for whatever reason. He kept staring out of the window, taking a hit with a lifeless expression whenever they passed him the bong, and Spencer figured he was just reacting to the pot a bit differently this time.

Ryan said, “The dog’ll be fine.”

“If not, it will die one happy dog,” Jon grinned. “But seriously, Ryan, who’d it be?”

“What are we talking about again?” Spencer asked, because he had arrived only a while ago. His companions were high as fuck, eyes dilated with chuckles escaping their lips.

“Which celebrity you’d fuck,” Ryan replied before leaning down to take a hit and fiddling with the lighter. Ryan held the smoke in for a good fifteen seconds like a pro before exhaling. “What are we talking about?” he asked.

Jon looked just as confused, and Spencer filled in, “Fucking celebrities.”

“Oh, right,” Ryan snickered and gave Jon the bong and the lighter. “I honestly don’t know. Some hot chick with breast implants, probably. You, Jon?” he asked and turned to the man sitting on the other armchair. “Brad Pitt, maybe, or some other piece of hot boy ass?”

Jon gave Ryan the finger. “Fuck off.” Jon leaned against the rest of the armchair, and Spencer and Ryan both chuckled. Jon hated it when they questioned his sexuality, but the uncomfortable look in Jon’s eyes did nothing to appease them. Jon recovered and grinned broadly as he cast his eyes on Spencer. “I would have to say… Grace Urie.”

Spencer gagged on air. “Dude, that is fucking nasty. Show some respect, okay? You’re talking about my stepmother there.”

In legal terms, Grace was more than a stepmother; she was, in fact, Spencer’s mother. Grace had adopted him when his biological mother had agreed to give up her maternal rights. It hadn’t taken a lot of convincing either. Spencer thought the sum had probably been around fifteen thousand dollars. She was now happily married to some guy Spencer had never met, living somewhere in the suburbs of San Francisco and probably pretending she had never had a son to begin with. Grace was the only mother Spencer had. He looked to his side at Grace’s son, seeing Brendon’s dark brown hair fall in front of his empty eyes.

Brendon was staring out of the window, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. Jon’s comment should have roused a fierce objection from the man.

“I am just being honest,” Jon said, all the while speaking in a teasing voice. “Grace would have to be my choice.”

“Bren!” Ryan said loudly, catching Brendon’s attention. Brendon turned his chocolate eyes to Ryan, having snapped out of a trance. “Jon just said he wants to fuck your mother.”

Brendon registered the comment and snickered. “Highly unlikely. My mother has class.”

Afternoons like this one were calm and relaxing. Spencer wasn’t happy that he had come home to his friends smoking, not that he minded as such. It was just that Spencer knew his family was falling apart, and Brendon escaping reality with a joint wasn’t entirely helpful. Why did people always expect Spencer to fix everything?

“Well, which celebrity would you fuck, Bren?” Ryan asked and smirked, his tone icy as he added, “Or are there any left you haven’t done already?”

Brendon seemed to take the remark as a compliment. He turned his head to the side, his eyes landing on Spencer, capturing the younger man in a consuming gaze. Spencer looked away and focused his eyes on George drooling on his designer jeans. His heart felt constricted when Brendon looked at him like that.

They were falling apart.

“I’d fuck me,” Brendon finally concluded.

“Doesn’t count,” Jon immediately declined, offering Spencer the bong. Spencer lifted his hands as rejection and Jon shrugged, passed it on to Brendon instead.

“Alright,” Brendon sighed. “I’d fuck Jesus Christ.”

Brendon’s eyes flashed in mischievous amusement as he talked about divine sex, and Jon shouted, “Blasphemy!” and Ryan told him to just take a hit already because he wanted more. Spencer relaxed when he saw the way in which his friends interacted. Maybe they could pull off another month, another year.

A knock came from the double doors of the living room, and Brendon ended up coughing as he was inhaling from the bong. “Fuck,” Brendon said, breath hitching and eyes watering, and Spencer knew that Brendon’s lungs were burning. The bag of weed on the coffee table instantly disappeared into Jon’s pocket as Ryan grabbed the bong with a hurried curse and helplessly looked around.

“Give it here,” Spencer hissed and snatched it, quickly placing it on the couch and trying to hide it with a cushion. He didn’t want to knock it over and have the water ruin the couch. Ryan and Jon were waving at the air feebly, and Spencer made sure they all looked casual before calling, “Yes?” He took charge because it came to him naturally, not because he was the only one whose pupils weren’t abnormally wide.

Tom appeared at the doorway, and they all relaxed. Just a servant. No one cared about a bit of pot except David who would have started World War III over it. Spencer’s father really had absolutely no sense of humour.

“I’ve been asked to inform you that Mr. Urie is here,” Tom said with some attempt at formality.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ryan shot with a chuckle.

Tom gave them a forced smile. “The older Mr. Urie, that’d be.”

Brendon and Spencer both frowned, and the chauffer, who was now being a bell boy, sighed in annoyance. “Your grandfather. The old dude? He’s here.”

“What?” Brendon and Spencer said in unison. Spencer stood up quickly, and George jumped onto the floor with a small grunt after having been woken up.

“Who?” Jon asked.

“Oh fucking shit,” Brendon giggled as he straightened his shirt. “Grandpa is here, and I’m, like, I am fucking stoned.”

There was absolutely nothing amusing about it. Spencer had had a bad feeling all day, and he felt like a grenade had just exploded in his hands. This was it, the thing that would be their downfall.

“We’ll be right there. Just- Just fucking hold him still for a minute, you got that?” Spencer told Tom, who disappeared with an obedient nod, and he now turned his attention to Brendon. “Stand up,” he ordered, roughly pulling Brendon up to his feet. Brendon was still grinning from ear to ear, and Spencer swiftly slapped his stepbrother on the cheek.

“Ow! Ow, domestic fucking violence!” Brendon whined as Spencer told Jon and Ryan it was time for them to go back to their own homes for once.

“You slapped Brendon,” Jon noted in an awed voice.

“Well, it clears his head,” Spencer called over his shoulder, rushing to his bedroom and to the adjoined bathroom. He found the eye-drops he always kept handy because, well, they needed them every now and then. When he got back, Ryan and Jon were getting ready to go. Good friends knew when they weren’t wanted.

“Here,” Spencer instructed, handing Brendon the drops.

“Catch you later,” Ryan said casually, pushing sunglasses up his nose and buttoning his winter coat. Jon gave them a wave, giving Spencer a sympathetic look. Brendon was hopelessly disorientated.

Donald Urie was a man of seventy-something, Spencer didn’t know for sure. A brilliant man who had never made anything of himself but had spent his life teaching high school kids the wonders of integration, differentiation and matrices in a shitty Las Vegas neighbourhood for thirty and some years. Spencer had always liked Donald because the only biological grandparent he had left was David’s mother, and she was dying in a nursing home and couldn’t even remember her own name.

The Urie family had adopted him thoroughly.

“Grandpa!” Spencer said cheerily as he and Brendon got to the massive lounge at the centre of the condo.

“Would you look at my boys!” Donald said, rising to stand up from the antique loveseat. Brendon, who had been careless with the eye drops, was wiping his eyes and blinking more than necessary as he gave the old man a hug. When Spencer’s turn came, Donald patted his back firmly, and Spencer noticed that he was taller than Donald, not that Spencer was growing anymore, but Donald was shrinking like old people tended to.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow!” Spencer said, keeping his eye on Brendon who was in no condition to socialise.

“Today, today! No one was at the airport so I took a taxi. I told both Grace and Brendon when I was coming!”

So that was why no one had known. Grace couldn’t even remember their birthdays, let alone when her father was coming to visit. Brendon, well… Spencer glanced at his stepbrother, high as a kite, and wasn’t that surprised that Brendon had forgotten.

“Are David and Grace home?”

“Er, no, but they will be,” Spencer promised as they sat around the coffee table. Brendon grabbed Spencer’s hand as they sat down, and Spencer twisted his arm behind his back in hopes that Donald wouldn’t see his twenty-one-year-old grandsons holding hands. It was an awkward angle and it hurt, and Spencer was fine pushing Brendon away on normal days, but when Brendon was scared or in danger… Spencer fell for the trap every time. Brendon laced their fingers together, his palm sweaty.

Donald, however, just started his usual routine of asking what they had been up to, what magazines he had seen them in, frowning that they weren’t in college (Brendon had barely graduated high school and Spencer hadn’t done so hot either), asking after girlfriends, which made Spencer and Brendon squeeze each other’s hands a bit tighter, almost afraid that a girlfriend would come between them. Spencer talked, and Brendon was stoned but not stupid, so he kept his mouth shut, chuckling at things that weren’t funny.

“Dad’s probably gonna be a while,” Spencer admitted. David was a workaholic, but Spencer didn’t mind. The more David worked, the richer Spencer and Brendon got.

“And Grace?”

“She said something about a spa,” Spencer muttered, looking at Brendon for confirmation.

Red-eyed, Brendon nodded. “Yeah, water… steam… massages. Masseuse,” he snorted and snickered. “That word sounds, like, so weird!”

“Are you hungry, Grandpa?” Spencer interrupted. “Lucía can make us dinner.”

“Now there’s an idea!” Donald said and stood up. “Let’s make dinner! A roast dinner, duck perhaps –”

”We’re vegetarians,” Spencer reminded the man. “And Lucía can cook up just about anything.”

“Nonsense, we’ll make something ourselves. Mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, whatever it is that people eat nowadays,” Donald muttered, already heading out to reach the kitchen the Smith-Uries themselves never used. “Spencer, Brendon, come help your Grandpa, will you?”

“Brendon, actually, should go sleep. Um, he slept badly last night, the full moon and all. I’ll join you in a minute,” Spencer offered, and he realised that maybe he was the maternal one of their family, the one taking care of Brendon, the one putting the wine bottles away when he found Grace passed out somewhere, the one making sure David didn’t have to see more than what was necessary of their chaos.

Brendon didn’t let go of Spencer’s hand as Spencer ushered them back to their quarters.

“Stay here until your head clears, okay? You’re lucky he’s old and hasn’t read any of those brochures on how to know if your kid is smoking,” Spencer said as Brendon wandered to his bedroom, nodding absently and almost dancing to a strange rhythm Spencer couldn’t figure out. He sighed, because this was just one of those ‘You have money, you have friends, you have power… but the world still hates you, Spencer Smith’ days. Brendon was being distant instead of overbearing, and it would have been a nice change, but now it worried him to no end.

“Spencer,” Brendon called when Spencer was shutting the door. He stopped and looked at Brendon with raised eyebrows, hoping that Brendon would tell him not to worry, hoping that Brendon could give him comfort of some kind. “Remember that time David and Grace dragged us to that Christmas fundraiser?” Brendon started slowly. “Leukaemia one when we were… sixteen?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Brendon paused before breaking into a grin. “Remember how we jerked each other off in the men’s room?” His voice was an octave lower, and he was standing by the bed with cocked hips and dilated pupils, and somehow it looked fucking sinful.

Spencer’s jaw clenched, and a blazing fire scorched his insides at the memory.

“I’ll go help Grandpa,” he said dismissively, keeping his voice neutral. Brendon wanted a reaction, but Spencer wouldn’t give him one. Not on a topic like that.

But Brendon had done the trick, and as Spencer joined Grandpa to make them dinner, all he could think of was a younger Brendon, almost five years younger, leaving hickeys on his neck as his long fingers wrapped around Spencer’s cock, tugging and stroking and making Spencer shake. And most of all, he could remember seeing that look in Brendon’s eyes, the one of shock and lust that seemed to ask, “Can you believe we’re doing this?” and Spencer’s eyes had replied a simple, “No.”

Well, that had been years ago now. Spencer was a hell of a lot smarter than to start up with that shit again, with his fucking stepbrother.

“Just the thing!” Donald enthused as he found butter to throw in the bowl of now mashed potatoes. “It has to be nice, thick and buttery.”

Donald put even more butter in, and Spencer watched it with a sickening feeling. Old people didn’t care much about health or how many grams of fat you should eat every day (ninety-five grams), and Donald was making sure that even the vegetables were swimming in cooking oil before he turned it into a sauce of some kind, adding cream, and Spencer felt vile just looking at it.

“You need to replace meat with something. Butter probably does the trick,” Donald mused, and Spencer wanted to scream that the man knew nothing about nutrition or vegetarian diets.

David came home early because Spencer had left him a voicemail that Donald was there. Grace was probably having a good time in some discreet bar somewhere in Manhattan, seeing as no one spent ten hours at a spa.

Lucía insisted on setting the table, probably feeling insulted that Donald had stepped on her turf. Brendon had come down, thank god, and the four men sat around the sixteen-person table of their dining room to eat. Donald took Spencer’s plate, filling it to the fullest, and Spencer stared, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Oh, Donald!” David said with fake enthusiasm. “Eating this food takes me back to my childhood! I swear this is how my mother used to make mashed potatoes!”

“Eat up, boys,” their grandfather beckoned, and Brendon did so eagerly, because Brendon always got the munchies and was willing to stuff his mouth with anything.

Spencer played with the fork, but under the scrutinising stare of his father, he began to dig in. He forced down each forkful, feeling the excessive butter, cream and oil on his tongue. He stared at the plate, counting up to a horrid number of one thousand one hundred calories, and he knew he had skipped breakfast, but it hardly meant that he could eat this much. Even Donald’s salad side dish was drenched in mayo, and Spencer’s throat was fighting it, convulsing as he forced it down with water.

The second he had emptied the entire plate and refused, downright refused, a second helping, he excused himself. Donald didn’t mind since he had spent plenty of quality time with Spencer already, and Spencer was off the hook for the time being. He closed all doors behind him, finally getting to his bedroom.

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror by the wall, just giving himself a brief glance to acknowledge he looked hideous, and then he had already rushed to his bathroom, not even having to use his fingers to make himself throw up the despicable things he had eaten. His stomach convulsed and his throat burned, the taste of stomach acids on his tongue, but he felt so much fucking better now that all of Donald’s cooking was out of his system.

“Thank god,” he breathed as he got back to his feet, faltering only a little. He flushed the toilet and went over to the sink to brush his teeth. He got out dental floss to make sure no bits of food remained, because even a thorough brushing of teeth could leave a shit load of stuff in his mouth.

Halfway through his cleaning process, Brendon appeared in the mirror behind him, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing look in his eyes. Oh, it was alright for Brendon to appear composed now, was it? The kid had been fucked over his head just a few hours ago, and Spencer had saved his ass.

“What?” Spencer asked and continued flossing his teeth.

Brendon sighed. “It’s not good for your body, doing what you’re doing.”

“And your excessive partying is good for your body?” Spencer countered, finishing up and rinsing his mouth with water.

“It’s a bit different from me throwing up what I eat, don’t you think?”

Spencer swirled around, angered. “Fuck off. You know nothing about what I digest or don’t digest!”

Brendon’s shoulders fell, and Spencer knew that they bickered a hell of a lot, but when he was actually _mad_ at his stepbrother, Brendon tended to draw in on himself and get quiet. Spencer wanted to say that he hadn’t thrown up in ages; it was just different with Donald’s fat-is-nutritious diet.

“I… I need to talk to you about something. Could we talk? It’s… kind of really important,” Brendon muttered, seemingly wanting to change the subject. “I was waiting for you, but then Jon and Ryan came around with the pot, so… But I really need to talk to you.”

“You sure you want the opinion of a bulimic?” Spencer spat. “I mean, that’s what you’ve just accused me of being.”

“I didn’t say –”

“The fuck you did!” Spencer snapped. “You are the most self-absorbed person I know, but yet you always manage to fuck up my life by imposing your opinions on me! And you never think of how your reckless actions reflect on this family, do you?” Spencer shouted, and he wasn’t normally a wreck, not normally, but he couldn’t handle days like this when all he really wanted to do was to curl up in bed with Brendon, call Ryan and talk shit about the people they knew, or go around to Jon’s and enjoy the way Jon always tried to figure him out.

“I care a hell of a lot –”

“Stop caring! Stop!” Spencer shouted. “You wanna know why you keep bugging me? Why you can’t just leave me alone?”

Brendon’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Because you have never slept with me,” Spencer spat. “I am the only person you haven’t fucked, Brendon, and you just can’t stand it. Well, get a clue. I’m your brother. I don’t need you asking me about shit we used to do, okay? I don’t fucking need that, and I don’t need you telling me what’s good for me.”

Brendon’s brows furrowed, and Spencer rejoiced knowing that something he had said had hit a weak spot. “I just want to talk because I… I need your help. I didn’t mean to say anything about anything, okay? Let’s just –”

“Whatever, Brendon. Go fuck Ryan, or go get drunk with Jon. Do your fucking thing, but leave me out of it. You know what’s not good for me? You’re not.”

Sometimes, there was no better source of euphoria than hurting someone. Spencer didn’t even care what he was saying; he just didn’t want Brendon criticising him when Brendon was the more obvious fuck up, and Spencer needed to think of himself as perfect. He was fucking perfect.

“I’m no good for you?” Brendon repeated the words in a hollow tone.

“No. You really aren’t,” Spencer said and pushed past his stepbrother to get ready for an evening with the family.

Spencer saw the worry and shock and hurt in Brendon’s eyes, and for a second, he realised that Brendon rarely said that he really needed Spencer’s help with something. It most likely had been important.

But as much as Spencer loved Brendon - because he did, he fucking adored the air Brendon breathed, but he would rather die than admit that to anyone - the fact was that they were on a sinking ship.

David would crack under pressure, Grace would have a public break down, Brendon would get caught with his jeans around his ankles, and Spencer didn’t want to be associated with any of those things.

Friends were turning into villains, and it was every man for himself now.

* * *

Ryan’s mind kept going over what Brendon had said. “I’d fuck me.” He pictured two Brendons, two Brendons fucking each other, and he had to control the boner about to pop out.

“My place or yours?” Jon asked.

They had been rather promptly kicked out of the Smith-Urie residence. Ryan said, “Yours.”

Jon hailed a taxi, and Ryan kept picturing two Brendons fucking, the matching moans, two messes of sweaty hair, two pairs of big, reddened lips, Brendon A fingering Brendon B, and it was a fascinating thought.

If there were two of Brendon, would Brendon give the other one to Ryan? Probably not.

Jon’s apartment in West Village was a clichéd bachelor pad with black couches and a tiger pattern carpet in the living room. Ryan knew better than to blame the horrible taste on Jon because Jon had just moved into a readily furnished apartment when he had moved to New York. Ryan figured that Jon’s dad had thought that every man of twenty-something salivated over a place like that. Granted, the Jacuzzi out in the balcony was pretty cool. The only rooms that didn’t look fake were Jon’s bedroom which was always a mess of dirty clothes, used dishes and scribbled tabs on the back of SoHo café receipts, and Jon’s music room with bass strings on the floor, different types of guitars hanging up on one wall, piano in one corner, and the list went on. Ryan often wondered how exactly Jon could bring girls home and fuck them in the mess of it.

Well, Ryan actually had heard rumours about that.

Ryan made himself comfortable on the living room couch, catching a glimpse of the Hudson River from the large windows. Jon emerged from his music room with a classical guitar and a capo between his teeth.

“You gonna serenade me?” Ryan asked as Jon sat on the leather couch opposite him.

“When I’m high, I get the best fucking ideas,” Jon enthused and started playing a cutesy melody. Ryan sighed and looked around, letting Jon know he was bored. He didn’t care much for music. Techno was good for dancing, but this wasn’t a club, and Jon was playing something that sounded like alternative country.

“So… you’d fuck Grace Urie, huh?” Ryan said to talk about something that would interest him at least remotely. He was coming down slowly, the high fading away. It was an unpleasant feeling, but pot was pretty pathetic stuff compared to what Ryan preferred.

Jon shrugged defensively. “She’s hot for her age.”

“Brendon looks a lot like her.”

Jon scoffed and glanced at Ryan. “It’s not some twisted way of saying I actually want to fuck Brendon. Get your mind out of the gutter, alright?”

Ryan shrugged nonchalantly but was pleased with the answer. He didn’t need yet another guy lusting after Brendon, though he knew there would always be more and more guys. Most of their friends wanted to fuck Brendon, so it was a rarity to find one Ryan could trust not to steal the object of his desires if he looked away. Brendon would go with anyone, after all. Ryan remembered the time he had thought that Matt had a crush on Brendon, and he had just about told her to keep her slutty hands to herself when it had turned out that she and Brendon had been working on Spencer’s twenty-first birthday party together. Brendon had needed her “feminine perspective”.

What did Brendon give Ryan on his twenty-first birthday? A blowjob. What did Spencer get? An extravagant VIP party with the hottest celebrities.

“Don’t frown so much,” Jon advised. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Not frowning, just thinking,” Ryan protested. There had to be a way to be the number one person in Brendon’s life.

Jon cleared his throat a little. “Do you think they’re alright? Spencer and Brendon, that is.”

“What makes you say that?” Ryan asked and sat up straighter.

Jon shrugged. “Spencer’s been pretty… stressed lately. And Brendon’s been a bit quiet, which is scary on him. And…”

“Yes?” Ryan pressed on, intrigued. It was not often Jon confided in him, and this felt like a time when Jon was about to.

“I thought I saw Brendon in this… bar. In Queens. I think I saw him there the other day, and it’s not a place where a guy like him would normally be. I just feel like I’m missing a puzzle piece.”

“What the fuck were you doing in a bar in Queens?” Ryan asked, the rumour he had heard about Jon ringing loud in his ear. “What kind of a bar?”

“A strip joint,” Jon said easily, and Ryan knew Jon was still high to be talking about this so freely.

“You saw Brendon there?” Ryan asked, the constant jealousy renewed again.

“Well… sunglasses and a hood over his head, but it really looked like him, yeah. I mean, you know that kid who works for them? Tom? Yeah, he was definitely there.”

“Sounds to me like you saw Tom enjoying his day off, saw a guy of similar body build as Brendon and jumped to conclusions. Brendon Urie doesn’t _need_ to go to fucking strip joints, for crying out loud,” Ryan said in an offended tone. His Brendon was a whore, but a whore who didn’t have to pay for his fun. That made everything classier.

Jon made an agreeing sound, obviously seeing the errors in his logic. “What were you doing in a strip joint?” Ryan asked with an evil grin.

Jon had the sense to blush a little, and Ryan thought of Kirsten, friend of a friend but in the same scene as they were, and he thought of the way she had leaned over Ryan in her drunken state, slurring, “You’re Jon’s friend, right? He took me home last week… Oh god, Ryan, you’ll never believe what he wanted to do to me! I am _not_ that kind of a girl!”

Ryan had been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. “I was talking to Kirsten. You know her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure I do.”

“She told me that you wanted to tie her to your bed,” Ryan said with a devilish grin, and Jon stopped playing the guitar altogether.

“I was _really_ drunk that night,” Jon muttered in his defence.

Ryan instantly lifted his hands. “Not accusing you, just saying. I mean, everyone’s got their own kink. Kirsten is a cute girl, though, good choice. I’ve never fucked her, but I will when I get around to it. She’s hardly an exceptional beauty, you know? There are other girls to be fucked first.”

Jon didn’t say anything, but he was no longer smiling either. He promptly stood up and headed back to his music room, and Ryan grinned. He had hit the fucking jackpot repeating Kirsten’s words. A bit of bondage wasn’t that lethal, not at all, but in their circles, the girls were high class. They were not happy to be asked to even swallow. Though, yeah, Ryan didn’t actually know much about that.

It seemed like Jon jerked off to the thought of a tied up Grace Urie. What a sick motherfucker lurked beneath that rich, laidback, holier-than-thou indie god exterior.

Ryan rolled himself a joint, sharing it with Jon to make sure Jon didn’t hate his ass. A bit of friendly teasing, nothing more. Erase Grace’s name and replace it with Brendon, and Ryan would be all for tying the boy down. At least Brendon would stay that way. Still, it was a bit different from taking a one-night-stand home and asking if they’d be cool with bondage. Had Kirsten been sober, she probably would have slapped Jon instantly for suggesting something so horribly degrading.

Jon was reserved and tight-lipped, but Ryan had to go anyway. He was tired of smoking weed, and Matt had given him the number of the dealer who had the mind-blowing coke. It was a good sign the guy had agreed to meet Ryan in the lobby of the Four Seasons. Ryan was done buying his shit from the stereotypical Latino gangsters. Ryan was gorgeous, rich, in love with himself yet miserable. He didn’t need any more stereotypes than that.

The dealer called himself Peach and turned out to be a Caucasian male of twenty-something with light brown hair and slightly puffy cheeks and wearing an Armani suit and a pair of designer glasses. He was wearing a black hat, and Ryan instantly approved as they sat around a cosy table and ordered two martinis. Hats made a man. Peach looked well groomed and well mannered and oozed a false sense of innocence.

“So, I understand you are a friend of Gwen’s,” Peach said conversationally, taking a sip of the martini once it arrived.

Ryan frowned only for a split second. “Oh, you mean Matt,” he said. He never called Matt by her first name. “Yeah, she is a friend of mine. I tried some of the goods she had purchased from you. I was very pleased.”

Peach let the tip of his index finger follow the brim of the glass. “I don’t do one-offs. I want steady clients, fixed amounts for a fixed price.”

“A fixed price? Shouldn’t that depend on the quality of the product?” Ryan objected.

Peach smirked and leaned over the table. “The quality… is _always_ top notch. If not, I won’t buy it in the first place.” He leaned back, straightening his jacket slightly. “Now, what amounts are we talking about?”

“Two eight balls a week.”

Peach lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a lot for one person.”

“I share it with friends. It’s polite, don’t you think?”

“As long as you know the art of being discreet,” Peach pointed out, and Ryan knew he wasn’t allowed to go blabbing about who his dealer was or where he was getting his stuff.

“Naturally,” Ryan smiled. They were both on the same page, and they were in business. Peach seemed to be the godsend solution to all of Ryan’s cocaine needs. Their meeting didn’t last too long because it was best to keep things like these minimalist; you didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself. When money and drugs exchanged owners, Peach did it so smoothly no one in the bar would have suspected a thing. Ryan grinned at Peach blissfully as they shook hands, and Peach excused himself.

Ryan instantly put Peach’s number on his speed dial. Diamonds were a girl’s best friend and dealers were a man’s.

He called Matt to tell her that she had been right about Peach. Their old dealer had nothing on this new arrangement. It didn’t take her long to join him in the lobby of the Four Seasons, and Ryan thought she just wanted a hit, but she declined. More for him, then.

“When was the last time you went to class?” she asked, and Ryan shrugged. He kept forgetting that he was supposedly a student. If he threw enough money at them, they’d still give him a degree. He was too busy with Brendon, coke, Brendon, coke, Brendon, Brendon. Damn Grandpa Urie for bursting in and ruining his week. Ryan had been hoping to get some alone time with Brendon, but no, of course not.

“Wouldn’t it be… fantastic to have two of you so you could fuck yourself?” Ryan asked conversationally, smiling at the thought. He had some of Peach’s coke in his pocket and was eager to try some. But no, it was a weekday. No, he really had to stop from slipping.

Matt shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, I’ve had my short-lived lesbian phases so it’s not like I could freak out over the combo of pussy and pussy.”

Ryan merely chuckled, but Matt moved her chair next to his, taking a hold of his hand. She looked at him with big brown eyes and said, “Speaking of which… I really do want to talk to you about what happened in Australia.”

“What’s up with the fucking handholding?” Ryan asked disdainfully, pulling his hand back. “I’m not a cancer patient.”

“You’re not, but I just… want you to know that it doesn’t have to change anything. There’s nothing wrong with…” Matt paused to take a breath, obviously not having thought through whatever she was trying to say.

“Don’t say it,” Ryan warned her. Ryan didn’t need her talk about love and acceptance or any of that crap Dr. Phil fed people. It had been unwise to try a drug that had been an “Australian specialty”, he still didn’t know what the fuck it had been, but it had messed him up good. It had made him accidentally tell Matt the one thing he never wanted anyone to know.

“Look,” Matt said patiently. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

Ryan stood up instantly, the carefree feeling in him evaporating. “I am _not_!” he hissed, feeling insulted.

“But you are! You said so yourself! Most of your male friends like tapping that anyway, so why are you freaking out?”

Ryan shook his head vigorously at Matt’s ignorance. Jon got hell for being straight, but that was nothing to the kind of shit a gay guy would get. It was much easier to say you played for both teams. If you said you were gay, you were a minority; a minority that often got discriminated against. Ryan wasn’t stupid, and he knew the rules of survival.

Rule of survival number one: don’t be in the minority.

He was not gay. He didn’t care what he had said when he had been hallucinating Down Under, he was not about to participate in Gay Pride parades. Fuck that shit.

His mind was splitting into a million little sections. The humiliation, the loss, the ridicule he would have to suffer if people found out that he preferred Paul to Pauline. Everyone knew he fucked guys, but it was only acceptable if he fucked women too. That was what Spencer was doing, what Brendon was doing, and it was fine because the Smith-Urie brothers definitely liked women too.

He hadn’t slept with a woman in three years and never planned to again.

“If you want, you don’t have to come out to the entire world. Just your closest friends, yeah?” Matt said soothingly. “Or even just to that gang of yours, Brendon, Spencer and Jon. They’d understand.”

“I am _not_ gay,” Ryan spat in a lowered voice lest someone hear. Matt was speaking quietly, but to him, it felt like she was shouting his sexual orientation to the entire bar area.

“Everyone knows you sleep with men.”

“You,” Ryan snapped and pointed a finger, feeling more and more infuriated the second. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea at all.”

Matt sighed heavily, backing down. “I’m just worried. You haven’t been yourself lately… you’ve been, I don’t even know. Preoccupied, maybe. Maybe you’d be happier if you could be one with your sexuali –”

“I am. I fucking well am! Don’t you ever call me gay again when you don’t know a damn thing!” Ryan warned her. He didn’t care for her good intentions or her suggestion that he come out of the closet.

Matt seemed speechless, and Ryan stormed off, not really caring that she might be the only person to sympathise with his situation. Furious hazel eyes stared back at him in the bathroom mirror, and he exhaled shakily, fingers curled around the edge. It was a weekday.

He quickly occupied a stall, locking the door with shaky hands. He used his shaking palm as a surface to cut two lines with his student card he always used for that purpose, trying to calm down as he snorted the coke in quick procession. He leaned against the stall door, ignoring the ringing of his phone in his pocket. He would have liked to think that it was Brendon, asking Ryan to come around for no other reason than to enjoy his company. But he knew that wasn’t it, so he thought that maybe it was Matt demanding that he come out, but she had probably gone to find something better to do. Most likely it was someone Ryan barely knew, wanting to hang out, party, talk…

What good was talking?

It was okay to fuck men, maybe even okay to have a fling with one and say that it was because of the mind-blowing sex. But it was not okay to fall for a guy. It wasn’t okay to want to be with a guy every damn day because the way they smiled made you feel like you really didn’t need the drugs to be happy. It wasn’t okay to think of their full lips, their brown eyes, it wasn’t okay to be jealous of the people they hung out with. It wasn’t okay to feel, to get emotionally involved with a man because women were for marriage and kids and relationships.

He shuddered as the drug spread in his body, his fingers flexing as he let the chemicals take over.

Ryan Ross was not gay. And he most certainly had never made the fatal mistake of falling in love with another man.  



	4. Four Days

Four days.

That’s how many days Brendon had left. Four days to give Skinny twenty-four thousand dollars. The initial debt had been a whopping forty, a sum that would have made a normal man break down entirely, but it had only made Brendon sweat a little. Brendon still remembered the first time he and Spencer had earned eight thousand dollars for a joint interview back when they were sixteen.

When trying to get his hands on the forty thousand he had originally owed Skinny, he had taken some of it from his mother, five thousand from Spencer, a couple from David, and most of it he had taken off his own bank account. He had spent ages covering up his tracks, inventing investments to explain the disappearance of the money (he told David he had been taking expensive and intensive Spanish classes, which was bull, seeing as Lucía had brought him up and therefore he already spoke decent Spanish. Lucía said he had a bit of a Peruvian accent). All of that work had been in vain because now Skinny wanted more, an amount that was over half of the original sum.

He had four days left.

Brendon’s family had the money, sure they did, but Brendon couldn’t just take it without an explanation. He couldn’t believe that one drunken night was costing him nearly seventy grand. Seventy fucking thousands dollars. He might be from a filthy rich background but that still _hurt_.

“What about this, Mr. Urie?”

Brendon snapped out of his tormented thoughts and focused his eyes on the Givenchy saleswoman.

“That is beautiful! Is it new?” Grace asked from besides him, taking the cardigan beneath her manicured hands. “Oh, cashmere!”

“It’s just come in. We also have it in baby blue and forest green.”

“I’ll take this one,” Brendon said instantly, nodding at the red shirt. Grace beamed happily, having already purchased a handbag, a dress for herself, a belt and a jacket for Brendon. Brendon saw her smile and it made him feel sick. What a pretentious bitch.

“Do you need anything else, honey? New shoes? Sunglasses?”

“I’m fine,” Brendon said, smiling for the sake of the saleswoman still being present. It was all right for Grace to play the caring mother in public when she had come home drunk the previous night, forcing the rest of them to hide her from her father. Luckily Donald had gone to bed early.

The saleswoman packed their purchases, Grace flipping her credit card at her. She had recently redone her long hair, the brown now having a reddish glow to it. That, along with Botox, made her look younger than she was.

“Oh! Could we have a second pair of that Venetian red cashmere cardigan?” Grace said suddenly, flashing Brendon a smile when he raised an eyebrow. “One for Spencer, I’m sure he’d love one.” To the saleswoman she added, “I love it when my boys match! They look so adorable!”

The saleswoman herself was in her thirties, and Brendon noticed the suggestive undertone in her words when she looked at him and said, “I’m sure your sons look good in anything.”

Brendon was not in the mood for flirting with people he thought were too old for him. On another day, yeah, he might have lifted his eyebrows, given a promiscuous comment and congratulated himself knowing that the woman would masturbate to the thought of him later, but not today.

He owed Skinny twenty-four grand, he had four days left and that wasn’t even the worst of it. Spencer hadn’t wanted to come shopping with them. They had fought and Spencer had said that Brendon was no good for him.

A dark cloud appeared over Brendon’s head at the memory. Brendon hadn’t been judging; he knew that Spencer hadn’t thrown up in a long time. He was just worried that it would start again, the way Spencer calculated every bite he took, and if he thought he had overdone it, he’d go and throw up. God, Brendon hadn’t been judging at all. He had just been expressing his concern.

Grace gave Brendon a few of the several Givenchy bags that accompanied their Ralph Lauren and Krizia ones. When the doorman opened the door of the store for them, they both automatically lowered their sunglasses from their foreheads back over their eyes.

“Smile, Brendon,” Grace advised charmingly, and Brendon did as he too was aware of the photographer across the street, taking their picture.

Brendon knew the captions by heart. _Shopping with the Uries – dream boy Brendon Urie took mother Grace along for an afternoon of shopping on Madison Avenue this week. Judging by the number of bags, they both bought some serious bling bling!_ It was always stupid crap like that, but at least it saved Brendon from keeping a diary. What did he do this week? Oh, let’s just check the tabloids!

On the positive side of things, Grace was being bubbly and cheerful because her father was in town. Once he was gone, however, Grace would fully embrace her depression again, that was for sure. Brendon would rather have the press talk about Grace’s love of shopping than her alcoholism or his gambling debts.

“Oh, I must run!” Grace said exasperatedly when they reached their limousine where Tom already stood waiting. Tom winked at Brendon, and Brendon grinned a little. Tom was the only sane person he had met in a long, long time, and Tom didn’t give a flying fuck how rich or well-known their family was. Brendon appreciated the fact that someone liked him for who he was and not the add-ons. “Dad and I are off to see a play, _Equus_ , if I remember correctly. You can get home by yourself, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” Brendon muttered. “It’s a good play. Give grandpa my love.”

“Of course,” Grace said, and she puckered her lips and leaned towards Brendon, and Brendon obediently kissed her cheek, feeling her unnaturally buffered ones briefly touching his. The world had to see what a perfect family they were, and Brendon hated Grace for having the energy to keep up the public act but not the energy to get her _own_ act together.

Grace got in the car, and Brendon knew his moment had come. He just had to ask, say the words, and his problems would be over. ‘I fucked up’, ‘I need your help’, or maybe, ‘Could I have twenty-four grand?’ and claim it was for liposuction or some other surgery (though that would be ridiculous because Brendon thought he looked fine the way he was). Grace was his mother, and she wouldn’t abandon him.

But if he told her, she would tell Tom to drive her to the nearest bar instead of Broadhurst Theatre.

Grace was already sitting in the car and noticed Brendon staring. “Did you want something, dear?”

“Oh. Um…” Brendon said, forcing down a sigh. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Tom closed the door, and Brendon turned around to walk home. He noticed that the photographer followed him for a while, maybe hoping that he would pick his nose or something else as scandalous. All that happened was a giggling teenager stopping Brendon and asking if she could take a picture with him, which Brendon granted easily enough. He was used to posing for the cameras, putting on a cute face or a smouldering sexy look, whatever he felt like.

When Brendon got home, Lucía was dusting a statue in the hallway of the condo, informing him that the dog-walker had taken George to Central Park. Brendon carried the shopping bags back to his and Spencer’s living room, closing the doors behind him to hide from the world. The door to Spencer’s bedroom was closed but music was coming through.

It wasn’t often Spencer just exploded on Brendon like he had, saying Brendon kept bothering him because they had never fucked. It wasn’t about them having or not having sex. He pictured Spencer naked on his bed, and a shudder ran through Brendon’s entire body.

It wasn’t about that, though. And Brendon knew that he might be making things even worse, but if he couldn’t turn to Spencer, then… he didn’t know what he’d do. Grace was out of the picture and David had never been too sympathetic.

Brendon carefully knocked on Spencer’s door and entered when he received a muffled reply. Spencer was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as some random post-rock band echoed in the background soothingly.

“Got you a present,” Brendon mumbled. He didn’t want to be overbearing or annoying, he wanted to make peace. Spencer glanced at him tiredly, and Brendon showed the red Givenchy cardigan in his hands, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Cashmere. It’ll look good on you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got one too.”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Grace?”

“Yeah.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Why does she think it’s cute to have us wear identical clothing? It makes me feel like we’re pets and not her sons, just something to show off.”

Brendon wondered whether or not to say it, but he wanted to give Spencer the truth. “To be honest… to her, we probably are more like pets.”

Spencer sighed. “Fair point.” He moved up to rest his back to the barred headboard of the bed, and Brendon thought that it was going good so far. Spencer’s brown bangs fell over his blue eyes and he raised his knees, wrapping his arms around them. Brendon thought he knew Spencer inside and out, but he didn’t know what was going on with Spencer. This wasn’t usual Spencer behaviour. It was as if Spencer was showing signs of weakness, and Spencer was never, ever weak.

“Saw that Capote guy outside our building again. I think he might live here,” Brendon said.

“Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He lives a few buildings down.”

Spencer wasn’t saying anything that particularly encouraged conversation. Brendon played with the cardigan in his hands, and he didn’t know how to apologise because he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong.

“Spence…” he whispered, not looking at his stepbrother.

He heard Spencer sigh. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I was just… stressing out. What if Grandpa had realised you were high, you know? Or what if he had found out where Grace was, or… It was just a terrible day and I took it out on you.”

Brendon nodded carefully, deciding not to smoke pot any time too soon. If Spencer told him to jump, he asked how high.

“So do you really think I’m self-absorbed?” His voice just a bit hurt.

Spencer looked at him and smirked. “Don’t worry, Ryan is far more self-absorbed than you.”

Brendon chuckled, knowing that was true.

“I’m not hanging around in hopes that you and me, you know,” Brendon said with a vague shrug. “There are plenty of people who actually put out for me and don’t live like the fucking Pope…” he muttered and looked at his hands. He felt Spencer’s pillow hit his side and he laughed, looking at a grinning Spencer.

“I have sex all the time, thanks,” Spencer said and rolled his eyes.

Just not with Brendon.

It would be a pretty perfect arrangement in Brendon’s eyes, even though he knew the potential it had for disaster. But maybe they could elope to Canada or some shit, some dead end town surrounded by snow where no one knew that their stupid parents had married each other and Grace had adopted Spencer, some small town where fathers married their daughters anyway, and they could share the bed and make love and _be_ together.

“I don’t know who’d want to have sex with you in the first place, not with that beard,” Brendon retorted.

“You just envy my ability to grow facial hair,” Spencer pointed out and lay back down on the bed. “I’m gonna take a nap, so…”

Brendon made an agreeing sound, biting on his bottom lip. “Can I?”

Spencer shrugged indifferently, closing his eyes sleepily. Brendon decided he wasn’t getting an actual invite, so he lay down next to Spencer, stiff and staring at the ceiling. He counted to a hundred, listening to Spencer’s breathing, before turning to his side and pressing against Spencer. Brendon smiled when Spencer wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. Spencer always smelled like home, and Brendon buried his face in the crook of his neck. He knew Spencer never stayed mad at him for too long.

Brendon let his arm wrap around Spencer’s middle, and they stayed still on the bed with Spencer slowly drifting off to sleep. It was comfortable and cosy, and Brendon didn’t want to break it but he had to.

“Spence?”

“Hmm?”

Brendon bit his lip. “There’s this guy in Queens who… is, like, in the mob and owns a strip joint, and, well…”

“Yeah?” Spencer asked sleepily, and Brendon kept his eyes closed, feeling Spencer’s neck against his nose.

“And I owe him twenty-four grand.”

Spencer’s so far steady breathing got caught midway. “Fuck.”

* * *

Jon had a favourite prostitute. He knew that made him sound like a twisted asshole, but it was the truth. And Sapphire wasn’t a prostitute exactly; she was a stripper. She said that there was a big difference between a stripper and a whore, but Jon only knew that when he had offered enough money, she had agreed to sleep with him.

Sapphire was too short for a model and her breasts were too big for a dancer. She made an excellent stripper, though, and Jon lay perfectly content on the hotel bed as he watched her dress. Jon figured she had decided on her stage name based on her strikingly blue eyes or maybe she had just randomly picked it out. Jon was pretty sure the same strip club she worked in also had Ruby and Emerald.

Sapphire walked over once she had pulled her jeans back on, her long blonde hair past her shoulders, and she handed him handcuffs.

“Thanks,” Jon smiled.

She returned his smile and took the cash from the nightstand, sliding it into her back pocket. “Anytime, baby,” she winked.

She was warm and flirty, even when they maintained a strictly professional relationship. Her voice was a bit raspy from the sex, and Jon wasn’t sure if she had actually got off or if she had just faked it (in fact, Jon wasn’t sure if he had ever made her come), but he didn’t care either way. Sapphire’s wrists had tell-tale signs on them, and it turned Jon on like hell to know the story behind them.

Jon lazily got up and pulled boxers on before running his fingers through his hair. Sapphire clasped her bra on and quickly pulled on a t-shirt. She sighed as she looked at her wrists. “Gonna have to use plenty of make up to cover these up again.”

“I think I pay you enough to take a few bruises,” Jon remarked.

“You do, you do,” Sapphire purred, quickly tying her hair on a ponytail. She took extra from anything straying from ‘normal’ sex, so she definitely got plenty of money from Jon.

“I gotta go or I’ll be late for work. Call me, baby, the next time you…” she began, her eyes straying to the sports bag Jon had brought with him, full of chains, ropes and other innocent fun. “Well, the next time you need anything at all.”

“Will do,” Jon said, and Sapphire left the hotel room with another wink and a shake of her ass. She was an attractive woman, sure she was, but she was a stripper. Jon was good-looking, he shouldn’t be paying for sex, but goddamn it was hard to find a woman in their circles who would let Jon tie her down and fuck her until the bed broke beneath them.

Jon had had a rough day. He had stayed up too late and slept in, missing an appointment with his label’s representatives, and then it had been chaos until lunch and the afternoon hadn’t proven much better. But he had done what he sometimes did when he needed to relax: called up Sapphire, who had agreed to meet him in the hotel near the Queens-Midtown tunnel they used for the purpose. Jon couldn’t always be bothered to leave the island, and it was conveniently halfway for them both.

It was a bit dirty, but it’s not like they met up on a weekly or even fortnightly basis. It was random and satisfying, and that’s how Jon liked it.

Jon gathered up his belongings, leaving a fifty dollar bill on the table as a tip for the cleaner. He didn’t like knowing that some poor woman would be grimacing as she changed the dirtied sheets and picked up the used condoms. Cleaners weren’t vermin and Jon knew that, unlike some (Ross).

Jon took a detour to his own place to drop off his equipments bag before heading up to Fifth Avenue. He had wanted to fuck Sapphire one more time, but she had had to go to work and Jon had an appointment of his own. One fun fact about Brendon Urie was that he cut his own hair. No, Brendon actually did. He also cut Spencer’s hair and was about to cut Jon’s. Just a bit of trimming here and there, nothing much. Ryan had said he would rather die than let Brendon touch him, and as far as Jon was concerned, Ryan was the one of the gang who really needed to do something about the brown mess crowning his head.

When he got to the Smith-Urie residence, Grace opened the door for him. Jon stopped for a second, surprised when he was not greeted with Lucía.

“Evening, Mrs. Urie,” Jon said with a smile as he briefly glanced her up and down. Damn.

“What nonsense, you must call me Grace. You’re making me feel old, Jon!”

“My apologies, Grace.”

“How are you?” she asked charmingly, beckoning him to follow her to their massive lounge.

“Busy, trying to start gathering material for the second album. You know how it is,” Jon shrugged, sitting down when Grace motioned him to do so. Grace sat on a couch across from him, smiling brightly as she took a half-empty wine glass in her hand. The one thing Jon liked about the condo was that it was well after normal visiting hours, and yet no one cared. In this condo only David knew what time it was.

“I just got back from the theatre. _Equus_ , do you know the play?”

Jon chuckled. “Is it not the one with the Harry Potter kid riding a horse in the nude?”

“It is!” Grace grinned, playing with her hair as she took another long sip, drinking down the red wine a bit too fast. It was only then Jon noticed that she was tipsy. It wasn’t very easy to notice because she was much like she usually was. She didn’t slur, she didn’t sway, her eyes didn’t stand in her head. But yet there was an unbalance there, obviously caused by the wine. Jon found it an amusing sight. “I went to see it with my father. He was pretty shocked at the sight, actually. Have you met him?”

“I knew your father was in town but I’ve not met him, no,” Jon said.

“Well, he’s going back to Vegas soon enough anyway,” Grace sighed, and she didn’t sound too happy that her father was there. She grabbed the wine bottle on the side table, quickly refilling the empty wine glass. “I thought it was a wonderful play! Such… youthful passion! And the kid wasn’t ugly either,” she said as her lips twisted into a grin, an almost giggle coming out of her mouth. “There is something to be said for young men.”

Her comment instantly piqued Jon’s interest. “Is that so?” he asked in a low voice, again letting his eyes trace her features. She turned her brown eyes to him, and her expression reminded Jon of someone. Surprisingly, not Brendon. On the contrary, Grace shared a whole range of expressions with Spencer. “Well, I think there is something to be said for older women too,” Jon said slowly, estimating the situation.

“Really, Jon?” Grace said, and her smile was definitely flirtatious. “Surely an attractive man like you has plenty of women his own age to choose from.”

Grace took another sip, and Jon was so fucking in. He had always flirted with Grace a little but she had never been too responsive. This? This was unheard of. Jon so had this in the bag.

“Naturally, but they’re just girls,” Jon said dismissively, leaning forward. “Some men need a woman more mature than that. Someone such as yourself, for instance.”

This time Grace giggled, eyes flashing mischievously. Her glass was empty again, and how had she managed that? She was drinking it like water.

“My, you _are_ polite,” Grace almost purred, and Jon decided to fuck this game, he wanted to press her against the couch and ravish her. He got up to do just that, be subtle about it, of course, but at least move himself to the same couch with the object of his (current) desires.

“Jon,” a cold, calculated voice came, and Jon froze to the spot. Grace, who had been eyeing him up and down, focused her now slightly glassy eyes towards the doorway of the lounge.

“Spencer!” she said delightedly. “Come give your mother a kiss!”

Spencer gingerly walked further into the room, and Spencer’s blue eyes were piercing Jon’s skin like he _knew_. Jon remained where he was, feeling stupid and having no idea what to say. Spencer leaned down to kiss Grace’s cheek, taking the wine glass from her as he did so. She protested somewhat, brows furrowing as she tried to reach for the glass.

“Brendon’s waiting for you,” Spencer said calmly but it was a command. The cheerful, flirtatious atmosphere had vanished, and all Jon was left with was a slightly drunken middle-aged woman and her obviously pissed off stepson.

Spencer gave Jon a look that told him to fuck off. And Jon did, realising he was all talk and nothing else. He gave Grace a cautious smile as he turned around, taking a right at the door and heading down the hall towards the twins’ quarters. He heard raised voices from behind him, Grace’s, exclaiming, “I certainly will not! The night is young! Give me that, Spencer, give it back right now!” Jon realised that he had never heard Grace raise her voice to her children and didn’t know what to make of it. He suddenly felt like leaving and coming back when things were normal and not tense like they were now, but he couldn’t find it in himself to leave.

Brendon, thankfully, was like he always was. And George, too, was like he always was, fussing around Jon to be petted.

“Everything okay?” Jon asked Brendon anyway, partly out of guilt that he had been trying to put the moves on his friend’s mother.

“Yeah,” Brendon said cheerfully, having seated Jon in front of the large dressing table in his bedroom. Brendon was doing his hairdresser thing, looking at the sides and trying to decide what to do.

“You sure? I just, I think Spencer and Grace were, um, disagreeing on something…” Jon mumbled slightly, too embarrassed to say Spencer had caught him flirting with a tipsy Grace.

Jon met Brendon’s eyes in the mirror.

“We’re fine. One hundred percent fine,” Brendon said firmly, and that was that. “I know exactly how to cut your hair,” Brendon informed him proudly, taking his professional hairdressing scissors into his hands. Brendon stood directly behind him, telling Jon to stay perfectly still. Brendon leaned down, and Jon felt the first snip at the back of his neck. Brendon pulled back. “Dude. Dude, you smell so slutty right now.”

Jon laughed, the memory of Sapphire crossing his mind.

“Aw, don’t be shy,” Brendon said, going back to cutting Jon’s hair. “Come on, give me all the details.”

“Details on what?” Spencer interrupted, and Jon’s eyes flickered to the side to see the younger Smith-Urie enter the room.

“Jon’s been getting some ass,” Brendon grinned, using a comb to brush through Jon’s hair.

“Ass, specifically? I suppose I should be surprised but Ryan did always suspect it,” Spencer noted coldly, and Spencer usually didn’t give him the “you’re straight, you suck” bullshit. Jon cursed internally, knowing he had pissed off Spencer.

“Spent my evening fucking this girl I know,” Jon said, leaving out the fact that she had been a prostitute. Or a stripper. Well, whichever, Jon didn’t care.

Spencer made himself comfortable on Brendon’s bed, taking a copy of The Rolling Stone and flipping through it. Jon kept his eyes on Spencer through the mirror, and every now and then Spencer looked up, his expression unreadable. Brendon kept on trimming Jon’s hair, and if Brendon hadn’t been fabulous, rich and famous, then Brendon could have pursued a career in it.

When Brendon was done, he tried brushing the bits of hair off Jon’s shoulders to no avail.

“I really have to buy those gown things,” Brendon mused, and Jon could feel the short, short hairs digging into his skin through his shirt. “No worries! You take it off, I’ll go find something you can wear. Spencer’s because mine would be too small for you,” Brendon said with a cute smile before bouncing out of the room. No shit, the kid bounced. Jon knew that Brendon was always extremely happy after having cut someone’s hair.

Jon sighed, pulling off the shirt and tossing it on the floor, wiping his shoulders.

“Let’s see if he did a decent job at all,” Spencer said, and Jon glanced in the mirror to see Spencer standing behind him. Spencer ran his fingers through the shortened hair, the touch of Spencer’s fingers on Jon sending sudden shivers down his spine. “Looks decent. What do you think?”

“I like the look of it,” Jon said.

“You smell like sex.”

“I’m a busy man.”

Spencer nodded, fingers sliding down the sides of Jon’s neck and stopping on his shoulders. “Stay away from Grace. I’m not even kidding you, Jonathan,” Spencer said quietly, and Spencer was the only person who ever called him by his full name.

“I was just being friendly, man. You’re overreacting,” Jon countered.

“Yeah? Well, your type of friendly is not needed here,” Spencer almost growled, in a second confirming Jon’s long time suspicions that something was rotten in the Smith-Urie household. Spencer’s short fingernails dug into Jon’s shoulders, and Jon tensed up, the touch leaving him slightly out of breath. “You got it?” Spencer hissed, letting go of Jon and heading for the door.

Jon instantly swirled around in the chair, grabbing Spencer’s wrist just in time. “Dude, come on,” he said pleadingly. Jon couldn’t stand the thought of Spencer being pissed off at him as he suddenly realised he’d rather have Spencer’s friendship than Grace’s body. “I’m sorry, okay? Just don’t be mad.”

Spencer’s lips remained pursed, so Jon gave Spencer his ultimate sad face. “Spencer,” he said beckoningly and tried to look like a lost puppy. Spencer melted whenever Brendon did it, so Jon figured he might have a chance.

Jon felt triumphant when Spencer’s lips curled into a small smile.

“Just, you know,” Spencer said, his eyes searching for something in Jon. Sympathy? Jon could be sympathetic. Grace was married to Spencer’s dad, after all, so if Grace was slutty, Jon could be sympathetic.

“Don’t be sleazy?” Jon suggested.

“Or tacky.”

“For you, Spence, I promise to be neither,” Jon said, and it was a bit tongue in cheek but Jon still meant it. Spencer chuckled, and it felt like a moment. To Jon, it felt like a moment as they remained frozen in Brendon’s bedroom, with Spencer’s eyes flashing with just a bit of warmth, and Jon could feel Spencer’s pulse under his fingertips as he still hadn’t let go of Spencer’s wrist.

“Good,” Spencer murmured quietly, pulling his hand back, and just like that the moment was gone. Spencer had shut Jon out again.

Brendon marched into the room with a green shirt in his hands. “Found this, it should fit you. You don’t mind, Spencer?”

Spencer shook his head, and Brendon handed Jon the shirt. Jon pulled it over his head, noting that the shirt smelled of Spencer. He now smelled of Spencer and sex, and the combination almost should have been funny but wasn’t.

Brendon admired his hands’ work as he walked around Jon, grinning broadly. Jon was trying to establish eye contact with Spencer, to see if he had really been forgiven or not. Spencer didn’t look his way, and Jon wondered why the fuck he so desperately wanted Spencer’s approval.

“I say we go out and let the beautiful people of New York see your incredible haircut,” Brendon said. Jon agreed, and he noticed that Spencer looked tired though he said he would come along too. Spencer just wanted to keep tabs on Brendon, and Jon knew it.

When they made to leave the condo, Brendon paused by the doorway of the lounge, eyes sweeping over it. “Uh, where’s…?” he began awkwardly.

“Grace went to bed,” Spencer said quickly, receiving a nod from his stepbrother, followed by a smile that might have been appreciative; Jon wasn’t entirely sure. Spencer’s expression was illegible, and Jon knew that finding out what was going on was entirely up to him.


	5. North Wind

North wind.

Brendon hadn’t been born in New York, though he was a New York City kid through and through. The first five years of his life he had lived in Las Vegas. He didn’t remember much of it, apart from one excruciatingly hot summer, when it felt like his skin had been melting off his bones. He remembered splashing in the kiddies’ pool out in the back with Husband Number Four playing pirates with him, laughing so much it hurt. “I’ll sink yer ship, Brendon!” He sometimes wondered why Grace had divorced Husband Number Four. He had been a totally awesome guy from what he could remember.

But as Brendon had spent the past sixteen years in New York, he should have gotten used to the cold by now. He should have, but he never had. The wind was freezing, cutting through the designer jacket as he passed the gates of Central Park, the time being something between three and four in the goddamn morning.

“Fuck this,” he muttered and stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from freezing.

He knew his way in the dark. Yes, it was a stupid idea to walk by himself in the park in the middle of the night, but he had mace in his pocket. He wasn’t stupid. People often thought he was, but he really wasn’t. He stuck to the road that was now void of traffic, keeping his eyes and ears open. He wasn’t actually worried anyway.

He passed the fountain at Bethesda Terrace, watching the moonlight make it glow in the dark night, and soon after he got to his destination at Cherry Hill, the surroundings utterly deserted. He knew what he was looking for, though, and he looked towards the lake, which stood pitch black, surface quivering in the wind. And somewhere in the darkness was a glow of red Brendon could just and just see. He headed for it, dead leaves making the grass slippery as he walked on, but he didn’t fall down.

The red spot dropped to the ground before his eyes, and he stepped on the cigarette, killing it.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” a soft voice commented, and Brendon looked up just in time to see the clouds shift and illuminate Ryan’s face.

“Then stop calling me up in the middle of the night,” Brendon said in a tone that didn’t really hide the fact that he didn’t mind.

Ryan leaned against the tree, a contemplative look on his face. “I like it here.”

Brendon looked down to the lake and back up to the greenery around them. It was not a very special place, no. But it was the midpoint between his place and Ryan’s apartment in the Upper West Side, and they had been meeting each other right at that very spot sporadically throughout the past few years.

It was their spot.

“It occurred to me that I’ve never seen a shooting star,” Ryan said, stepping out of the shadows and gazing up to the sky. “Could be one right above us, but we’d never see it. Light pollution.”

“I’ve seen one. I’ve seen the Northern Lights too, this constantly moving snake, green and a bit of yellow. One of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen,” Brendon said quietly, holding out his hand. “Give me one.”

Ryan obliged, getting out another cigarette and passing it to Brendon. It took them a few tries to light it, the cold wind destroying the flame of the lighter before they used their hands to cup around the flame and the cigarette. Brendon didn’t notice Ryan’s jacket looking bulky before the older man unzipped it, pulling out a bundle of fabric. Brendon curiously followed Ryan walk closer to the lake, watching him unfold the object before realising what it was.

“A blanket. You brought a blanket?” Brendon asked, the grin obvious in his voice.

“Yes, I brought a fucking blanket. These jeans cost me a fortune,” Ryan snapped as he laid it on the ground. Brendon shrugged, keeping the cigarette between his lips as he sat down next to Ryan. It was considerate, really, seeing as Brendon’s jeans had been extremely expensive too. Ryan wasn’t high, and Brendon preferred Ryan clear-headed.

Brendon settled on the blanket, feeling Ryan’s shoulder brush against his own. “I love Central Park in the middle of the night,” he said before adding, “Apart from the rapists and robbers, that is. I mean, this is a city of millions and we’re at the very heart of it… completely alone.”

Ryan only hummed in agreement, his breath rising into the air. Brendon passed him the cigarette and said, “You’re not trying to woo me with the full moon and blanket, are you?”

“Of course I am. I thought the rapists and robbers would be just the thing to get you going,” Ryan returned sarcastically, and Brendon stuck his tongue out. Ryan smiled and the cigarette hung loosely between his lips. “What do you know about being wooed anyway?”

“Oh, I’ve been wooed. I have been the object of romantic aspirations. See, I’m the chasee, never the chaser. Don’t have to chase,” Brendon said smugly. “I’ve had my share of romance.”

Ryan scoffed like he highly doubted Brendon’s words. “Is that so?” his friend asked in a challenging tone, passing the cigarette back. “Do tell me, then, what is this romance you speak of.”

Brendon instantly realised that Ryan was about to catch him boasting about imaginary events when he recalled one thing he labelled as romantic. “Well, this one time, back in high school, I had a thing with… this person,” he explained. “And it was spring break and this person left town. Europe, skiing holiday. Austria. I was miserable because, believe it or not, I was pretty head over heels.”

“Head over heels? You?”

Brendon shrugged. “I was young. But point is that they came back, this person came back. In the middle of the night, surprised me. And we… well,” he finished with a modest shrug.

Ryan put a finger into his mouth, puckering his lips and pulling the finger out with a pop. “Popped each other’s cherries?” he suggested.

“We did other things,” Brendon laughed, vividly remembering being on his knees by his bed, mouth full of cock and staring up, up, up to watch Spencer’s expression change as Brendon worked his tongue on Spencer’s erection. He still jerked off to the mental image, the memory, the _taste_.

Ryan grabbed the cigarette between Brendon’s lips, taking it back again. “Okay. What happened? They diss Europe for you, you are smitten. Sounds like puppy love at its best but I’ve known you since you were a junior in high school, and I never saw you being smitten with anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Brendon shrugged. He wasn’t the analysing type, he had never thought of it in depth. “I suppose I… wanted more than this person did. And then I realised dozens of people wanted me, people who weren’t playing hard to get. There were people throwing themselves at me.”

The cigarette was done and Ryan flicked it to the ground, breathing the smoke out into the air. “I know what it’s like to have people throwing themselves at you,” he said, and Brendon knew Ryan did. When they went out, both Ryan and he had plenty to choose from. Ryan was popular, which wasn’t really a surprise because Ryan was stunning. Brendon could remember the first time he had seen Ryan, how he had been fascinated by the other man’s eloquence. Ryan had seemed so mysterious. Ryan wasn’t mysterious anymore, no, but he still made no sense to Brendon.

“I always thought you skipped the puppy love phase, but apparently not. It’s sad I stand alone in this, it really is, here I thought I had a comrade,” Ryan mused. “I am… completely loveless.”

Brendon chuckled. “One of these days you’ll meet someone who’ll tug at your heart strings, Ross, just you wait.”

Ryan shrugged and lay down on the blanket, staring up at the sky. It was freezing, still freezing, but Ryan didn’t seem bothered. Brendon couldn’t feel his fingers, and he much preferred their nocturnal gatherings during the summer months. They never met up for any specific reason, really. Sometimes they smoked a joint, sometimes a cigarette, sometimes neither. Sometimes they just talked. Not many people were interested in what Brendon had to say. Well, not true. Tons of celebrity gossip lovers were interested in what _Brendon_ had to say, but Ryan seemed interested in what Brendon _had to say_. He appreciated that about Ryan.

“I’m freezing out here,” Brendon muttered after a long silence.

“Let’s go back to my place, do coke and fuck.”

“I don’t like fucking you when you’re shitfaced,” Brendon protested, though what did it matter? He slept with drunken and/or stoned people all the time. The difference was, though, that Ryan was his friend, and when Ryan did coke and Brendon was as sober as a baby, it didn’t fit well. Brendon didn’t like that feeling of absence in Ryan. If they were both out of it, then fine, that was a different story. “You shouldn’t take that stuff, you know.”

“I could give up cocaine but I’m not a quitter.”

“Smart ass,” Brendon muttered and stood up. Ryan sighed before following suit, gathering up the blanket and tucking it under his arm. “I should go home,” Brendon mused, wondering what Spencer would do if he found his bed empty. Not that Spencer came to his room in the middle of the night anymore. Brendon wished Spencer did.

“Come on, come back to my place. I’ll make you some coffee, warm you up, maybe,” Ryan said suggestively, and there was no way Brendon would turn down sex and coffee, so he found himself nodding.

They walked in silence, Ryan having drawn out another cigarette. Brendon tried picturing Ryan’s lungs, burned and black, picturing his own, a little less black, hopefully. Full of tar, cells dying, lung cancer waiting to strike them twenty years down the line. Well, why worry? It was a small price to pay for such a good time.

“I’ve never seen the Northern lights. I’ve seen transsexual hookers in Tokyo, but I haven’t seen Northern lights,” Ryan broke the silence.

“We saw them years ago, went to Scandinavia. Lapland.”

“Sweden?”

“Finland,” Brendon corrected. “Never seen that much snow in my life. It was gorgeous back there. I wish we’d get snow in New York instead of this shitty wind freezing my ears off.”

Ryan stopped, a smile tugging his lips. “C’mere,” he offered as he dropped the cigarette, and Brendon stepped closer, bursting out laughing when Ryan placed his long fingered hands over Brendon’s ears. “Keeping your ears warm.”

“Your voice is muffled,” Brendon simply observed. Ryan grinned, and they both looked around to make sure that, yes, the park around them was still dead, before kissing. Brendon laughed against Ryan’s cold lips, welcoming the taste of cigarettes when Ryan deepened the kiss quickly, cocky and sure of himself. “Not in public,” Brendon murmured against his lips.

Ryan pulled back. “Oh yeah, see all this paparazzi around?”

“Anyone could go by, I could get recognised. It’s different from us making out in the bathrooms of various clubs,” Brendon noted, knowing Spencer would disapprove of public showings of affection, if this was affection. The papers would go wild if they had pictures to back up the rumours that Brendon swung both ways. Sure, okay, everyone knew, but no one knew for a _fact_ , and therein lay the difference. Being subtle was an art Brendon had a vague knowledge of.

“Prude,” Ryan said disbelievingly, grabbing Brendon’s collar and walking backwards, pulling them from the street straight to the grounds.

“What the fuck?” Brendon asked, stumbling in the dark but Ryan said nothing until they had walked in further. Ryan pulled them around the thick trunk of an elm, slamming Brendon against it and pressing his own body right to Brendon’s.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Ryan said before locking their lips again, the tip of Ryan’s cold nose pressing against Brendon’s cheek. Ryan’s hands pulled up Brendon’s jacket, and Brendon hissed when his shirt followed, the icy January air feeling like the tip of a thousand knives on his skin. “I want to fuck you right here,” Ryan growled.

Brendon had to giggle, though he called it his manly giggle. “Nuh uh.”

“Uh huh,” Ryan said, and Brendon laughed against Ryan’s lips. Ryan grabbed his hand, directing it right onto the front of his jeans, and Brendon could feel Ryan’s erection through the denim. Ryan _was_ being serious.

Brendon estimated the situation. He pictured being able to say, “Yeah, I’ve fucked in Central Park,” the look of shock on Spencer’s face, the look of amusement on Jon’s. Plenty of New Yorkers had done it. He had lived next to the green spot of grass for years and never utilised it properly. Well, why the hell not?

“You got a condom?”

“Yeah,” Ryan assured him, and of course Ryan had one. Ryan always did.

“Lube?”

“Spit,” Ryan grinned.

“Disgusting but we’ll manage. And let’s make it a quickie,” Brendon offered, and Ryan nodded feverishly, hands already on the buckle of Brendon’s belt. Brendon swatted his hands away, knowing he’d do it quicker himself.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Ryan muttered as he pulled the condom from a pocket, sticking it between his teeth and unzipping his tight jeans, pushing them down to mid-thigh. Brendon had already achieved the same and snapped the condom from his friend’s mouth, kissing Ryan’s dry lips as Ryan placed his hands on Brendon’s hips, thumbs brushing over hipbones. Ryan’s erection was now pressed against Brendon’s half-hard cock through their boxers, and Brendon tugged at Ryan’s hair as they continued to make out. Ryan hated it when Brendon messed up his hair, and Ryan made a protesting sound but Brendon only gave him his evil grin.

“Come on,” Brendon urged when he pulled back, the mixture of both of their spits quickly becoming cold on his lower lip. Ryan gave him a smug look, offering him two of his fingers. Brendon stared for a second before catching on, eyes widening. Ryan grinned wider, and Brendon said, “I fucking hate you,” before obliging and taking Ryan’s two fingers into his mouth. Ryan’s fingers were cold, and Brendon ran his tongue between them, sucking and coating them with his saliva. A tiny gasp escaped Ryan’s lips, and Brendon got harder as he saw the mesmerised look in Ryan’s eyes.

They weren’t wasting time so Brendon turned around, bracing himself against the tree and sucking in his bottom lip. Ryan tugged his boxers over his ass clumsily, pressing closer and parting Brendon’s ass cheeks. “C-Cold,” Brendon stuttered when Ryan’s slicked up fingers pushed inside, two at once.

“Warm,” Ryan whispered into his ear, twisting the fingers and making Brendon gasp. The bark of the tree felt rough against Brendon’s fingers as he pushed back for more, fucking _freezing_ , but he kept telling himself this would make an astounding story to tell.

Brendon pushed the condom back to Ryan, and Ryan bit on the side of his neck, creating a rhythm with his fingers, getting Brendon ready for his cock. They both knew from past experience that Brendon would curse like a motherfucker if Ryan didn’t do a good job at prepping him, most likely causing Brendon to limp like an idiot on the following day. But Ryan knew what he was doing, and that was one of the reasons Brendon enjoyed sex with Ryan so much.

“Hurry up or I’ll get frostbites on my dick,” Brendon complained, having already moved one hand to curl around his hardened cock, stroking. Ryan only chuckled, low and seductive, and pulled his fingers out. Brendon waited, rubbing the head of his cock with one hand, stretching the other behind him to part his ass cheeks for Ryan. He was breathing fast, his body tense in anticipation.

“Best idea I’ve ever had,” Ryan said quietly, stopping to give Brendon’s earlobe a bite before Brendon heard Ryan spit, presumably to rub some saliva over the condom. It was crude and not at all what Brendon was used to, but he forgot it as Ryan pushed in. Brendon was used to the stretch of Ryan’s cock, the way you thought Ryan would be in all the way but he really wasn’t; Ryan always stopped for a second before pushing in the last few inches, catching people by surprise.

“Fucking good idea. Ah,” Brendon groaned, closing his eyes and biting on his lip. He was cold but he felt warm where their bodies were joined, where Ryan was gripping his hips and slowly pulling his swollen cock in and out of Brendon. “Go, ungh, go faster, just - yeah,” Brendon encouraged, mumbling, “A bit more –”

“I know,” Ryan’s voice came from behind him, commanding, and Brendon should have known he didn’t have to give instructions here. Ryan changed the angle, and Brendon moaned loudly, pulling on his bottom lip as Ryan’s cock brushed against his prostate.

“Shit, Ry,” he gasped, quickening the hand he had on his own cock. Ryan chuckled, the asshole had the arrogance to chuckle, and Brendon wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and screw the life out of him, but seeing as Ryan was already doing the latter in fast, hard thrusts, Brendon decided to focus on getting off.

Brendon suddenly heard voices, voices of people walking on the street somewhere on the other side of the tree, and he couldn’t help the quiet laughter that bubbled from his throat. He felt like a kid breaking rules, and it was thrilling. He felt Ryan’s lips on the back of his neck, grinning, and Brendon had to laugh, out of breath as he was. Ryan kept up the rhythm, and they were fully dressed with jeans down to their thighs, in a park in the middle of the night, fucking, and they were laughing.

For a fleeting second Brendon knew that in some ways Ryan understood him better than Spencer ever could.

“Close,” Ryan rasped, pushing in deeper, hitting Brendon’s prostate dead on. Ryan snaked his hand to Brendon’s front, pushing Brendon’s hand out of the way and beginning to stroke Brendon to the rhythm of his thrusts. Brendon opened his eyes, rationing his breaths, body tingling in the cold but he felt warm inside. All he could see was the tree as he leaned on it with one hand, trying to balance himself. This had been an awesome idea.

Brendon tried to muffle the moans but couldn’t. He loved being fucked, even if it was in the freezing cold and without enough lube/spit/butter (yeah, butter, but only that one time) helping them out. Ryan’s fingers were firm around his cock, squeezing on the upstrokes, and warmth was pooling in Brendon’s groin. His mouth went slack and he closed his eyes again, concentrating on Ryan’s cock pushing in and out of his body, hard and full of intent, the feel of it hot and raw and so fucking _good_.

“I’m –” Brendon began to say but couldn’t finish the sentence. Ryan’s cock hit his prostate and he was coming, breath caught in his throat and small mewling sounds coming through his parted lips.

Ryan muttered something that Brendon could have sworn was, “That’s my boy,” but he was pretty sure his ears deceived him. Ryan would never say something like that.

“So tight, Jesus,” Ryan panted, and yeah, that sounded more like Ryan. Brendon moaned as Ryan fucked him through the aftershocks, Ryan’s hand squeezing every last drop of come from him, moaning as Brendon’s muscles cramped around his cock. Brendon didn’t have to do any more work as Ryan came to a stop, nearly bruising Brendon’s hip with one hand. Ryan shuddered as he came with an “Ungh, _ah, fuck_.”

Brendon’s breath was rising in the air, and his head had cleared enough for him to worry about possible come stains on his jeans. Lucía would be so pissed if he handed her yet another come-stained piece of clothing.

Ryan pulled out with a masculine grunt, sounding satisfied. His lips brushed the shell of Brendon’s ear, and Brendon turned around, pulling his clothes back on as fast as he could. “Cold, cold, cold,” he muttered, adding, “A good fuck, thanks.”

“Ditto,” Ryan returned, zipping himself up and throwing the tied condom into the darkness. Brendon raised an eyebrow and Ryan shrugged. “Whatever. I shouldn’t litter but whatever.”

Brendon straightened his clothes, his knees still weak from the orgasm, his body tingling with the euphoric release. It hadn’t been amazing, no, but what had he expected in the cold?

“Worth it?” Ryan asked with a raised eyebrow, and Brendon nodded, pushing his hands into his pockets and shivering from head to toe. Ryan stepped in closer, smiling slightly, and pressed their lips together. Brendon didn’t mind post-coital affection, not at all. If there was none, Brendon sometimes felt empty and… well, he had even felt used on occasion. But Ryan understood the power of a simple kiss, a sign of mutual understanding.

“This was totally ridiculous,” Brendon said, trying to force his limbs moving again. The sex-crazed atmosphere was gone, and he was back to being just Brendon, and Ryan was back to being just Ryan.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Ryan said, and they headed back the way they had come. “I must remember this tree and remember it fondly.”

Brendon snorted but he felt as giddy as a schoolboy. Spencer would be so pissed when Brendon told him about this. Not as pissed as Spencer had been about the Skinny problem, no, but Spencer had said he’d take care of it. Therefore it had already been taken care of in Brendon’s books. Now he could entertain Spencer with this story, perhaps leaving out who his companion had been. It made a more interesting story that way.

They staggered back onto the road, and Ryan was grinning wide, in a way Brendon doubted he had never really even seen before. Brendon laughed, readjusting his hair, realising he was feeling numb in most places.

Ryan took a hold of Brendon’s hand, tugging it and nodding towards west. “Come on, I’ll let you take a shower and make you coffee.”

“Nah,” Brendon declined.

“We were going to my place anyway,” Ryan objected, and Brendon knew that it was true. The bushes had just been a detour. “We’ll fuck again, properly. You could spend the night, whatever. Just come on,” Ryan said impatiently.

Brendon never spent the night. Not even with Ryan, and Ryan had never insisted on it either. “I want to sleep in my own bed,” he shrugged.

Ryan sighed. “I won’t touch the coke, okay? Seriously, stop being an ass and just come on.”

Brendon gave Ryan a pout. “It’s not personal.”

Ryan seemed to realise that Brendon no longer had any intention of going home with him. “It’s never personal, is it?” Ryan said in full bitch-mode, turning around and heading the opposite way.

“You’re being a bitch!” Brendon shouted after him loudly. Ryan gave him the finger without looking back. “Whatever! I know you still love me!”

Ryan didn’t stop to throw a comeback at him, just kept on walking the other way. “Bitch,” Brendon muttered to himself, kicking the asphalt aimlessly. He was freezing and Ryan was a jerk. He turned around and headed home, disappointed that such a good night had turned out shitty because Ryan was a diva. So what Brendon didn’t want to go back to Ryan’s for coffee and sex and showering? They hung out all the time as it was.

Brendon walked fast (rapists, robbers) and felt relieved when he walked back out of the park, back to the streets of a city that never slept. When he got home and out of the chilly night air, he tip-toed through the condo, trying to be considerate of those sleeping. In his and Spencer’s living room George came up to meet him, leaving the dog bed in the corner. “Go back to sleep, boy,” Brendon whispered quietly, the dog curiously sniffing his hand. Probably smelled like someone’s crotch. George, being the lazy thing he was, scurried back to the corner. Brendon went to his room and changed into his pyjamas, feeling exhausted and cold. He could feel the stretch of Ryan’s cock still, and he chuckled at the memory, even if it was now shadowed by Ryan’s attitude problem.

Brendon had already done one bold thing that night, so he headed to do another. He crossed the living room and entered his stepbrother’s bedroom, knowing his way in the dark. It took him a second to adjust his eyes and locate the lump beneath all the bedding. Spencer grunted when Brendon gently shook him awake.

“What?” Spencer asked, annoyed and sleepy.

“I can’t sleep,” Brendon announced, not that he had even tried to yet.

“Grow the fuck up,” Spencer sighed and turned the other way.

“I really can’t sleep. The whole money business, it’s like, I’m afraid Skinny’s men are gonna burst through the windows or something.”

“I hate you,” Spencer muttered as he rolled over, and Brendon grinned victoriously as he slid between the warm covers that smelled of Spencer.

“Warm,” he sighed, feeling content and reaching for Spencer.

Spencer moved further from him on the bed. “What the fuck? Dude, you’re fucking freezing. Don’t come near me and let me sleep.”

Brendon rolled his eyes though Spencer couldn’t see. He’d be warm soon enough anyway. “Fine,” he murmured, feeling the tiredness slowly take over.

Brendon stuck to his side of the bed and closed his eyes. He knew that he would wake up tangled up in Spencer because that’s how it always was. He wished he had a video camera to record it because he wasn’t sure if he reached for Spencer in his sleep or if Spencer was the one to move closer to him.

In his mind, he liked thinking it was a bit of both.

* * *

Spencer knew Skinny was trouble the second Brendon had uttered the man’s ridiculous name. Skinny had agreed to meet Spencer in a decent, private SoHo café, and Spencer had thought that they could talk it over, man to man. When Spencer saw Skinny, however, he knew it was far worse than he had guessed.

Skinny’s stomach wobbled as he walked over, a ridiculous Hitler-meets-Stalin moustache on his upper lip. He looked self-important and like he owned the place. Spencer was used to feeling like _he_ owned the place. More worryingly, though, Skinny had a heavily-built guy walking behind him. So much for a man-to-man, it was more like man-to-two-thugs.

Skinny stopped in front of Spencer, eyeing him up and down, and Spencer looked at the man behind Skinny, noticing the bulldog tattoo on the man’s bicep. “I’ve got a bulldog,” Spencer said, breaking the silence.

“As have I,” Skinny noted, his eyes landing on his man. Spencer sat back down, taking his black coffee and sipping it calmly. He was not used to socialising with criminals.

Skinny sat down across from him, and the intimidating piece of muscle sat between them, grunting like he was, in fact, a bulldog with a few generations of inbreeding on his back.

“They serve excellent black coffee here,” Spencer noted conversationally. A mug of black coffee, no sugar, no milk, no nothing. Five calories. Take a mocha, for example. Two hundred calories, at least. Forty times more than what Spencer was consuming.

“I don’t give a fuck about coffee,” Skinny snarled. Spencer had spent one summer going up and down Manhattan, looking for the place with the best black coffee. He didn’t expect Skinny to appreciate his efforts in that particular field. Skinny didn’t seem like a man who’d appreciate it anyway. “What I care about is the money your brother owes me.”

Okay. They were in business now.

“He was drunk off his head. Isn’t this a bit unreasonable?” Spencer questioned. “It’s obvious you’re trying to get as much money out of us as you can. Morally questionable too.”

“Twenty-four thousand,” the bulldog cut in, menacing. Wow, it could talk.

“And what assurance do I have that, if we pay up, you’re not just going to keep asking for more and more?” Spencer asked, and Skinny shrugged like he had no clue. “How about the agreement that if you don’t leave us alone, I’ll get the cops on you?”

Skinny’s eyes thinned dangerously. Spencer knew there was no hope of talking himself out of the current debt; he’d get beaten up if he tried to do that.

“Your brother pays me what he owes… and we’ll never have to even see each other again,” Skinny said, and it seemed reasonable enough. Not like this scumbag would hang out in any of Spencer’s circles. Spencer took another sip of coffee, trying to calm his nerves. He tried to appear composed though inside his mind was racing. “Where is your brother, anyway? Is he scared?” Skinny asked mockingly.

“None of your business where he is.”

“Just making sure a kid who owes me money hasn’t skipped town.”

Spencer almost snorted at the thought of a fucking punk like Skinny being able to make Brendon leave his beloved city. “Brendon doesn’t owe you money. I do,” Spencer corrected the man. Skinny lifted his eyebrows and Spencer clarified, “From now on, you deal with me. I’m the one you need to be after. Brendon? Has nothing to do with this.”

Spencer took the envelope from his jacket pocket, putting it on the table casually. He leaned back and glanced around, and yeah, there was one guy looking at Spencer curiously, probably recognising Spencer from a People magazine snapshot. Skinny knew how to not make things obvious, though, taking the envelope with unrushed movements, briefly glancing inside.

“How much?”

“Three thousand.”

“Twenty-one too little.”

Spencer had to contain his rage. “Yeah, I’m working on it, okay? I can’t get a sum like that within your ridiculous time limit, which brings me to my second point. I pay you when I pay you. No more interest on being late either. If you don’t like it, then fine. Go to the press. What’s a bit more fame, anyway?” Spencer asked indifferently. “The public loves fuck ups.”

Even as Spencer said it, his heart skipped a beat at the horrified thought of Brendon having to go through public humiliation. David would have a fit, might even be angry enough to kick Brendon out. Grace would collapse entirely. Spencer, well, he wouldn’t be able to deal with any of those things. But now he had to bluff Skinny and make it seem like he didn’t care.

Spencer stared at Skinny with a blank expression. If there was one thing Spencer was good at, it was faking it.

Skinny muttered swear words under his breath. “You better pay up as fast as you can.”

“Naturally,” Spencer nodded, feeling incredibly relieved but trying not to show it. “I have every intention to take care of this matter promptly.”

“If I feel like you’re taking too long…” Skinny said ominously, nodding towards the stack of meat who kept his eyes firmly on Spencer. Spencer could finish the sentence on his own.

“I’ll make weekly contributions.”

Skinny considered it for a moment, and Spencer wondered if David would have been proud of his negotiation skills. “It’s all about communication and team work. It’s what employers are looking for, boys, and that’s true even with doctors,” David had ranted during a life philosophy lesson over breakfast back when he had thought that his sons would make something of themselves. David should have known they’d do fuck all when they had been spoiled since they could walk.

“Okay,” Skinny said eventually.

“And I mean what I said about Brendon. I take full responsibility for this,” Spencer repeated, feeling his chest tighten as Skinny’s man cracked his knuckles. This potentially meant taking the bullet – literally. Spencer didn’t have a death wish and he wasn’t stupid either. He knew what he was doing and was willing to take the risk.

“Deal,” Skinny said.

“Deal,” Spencer nodded casually, finishing off his coffee. He was unsure whether they were expected to shake on it, but Skinny didn’t seem like the hand shaking kind. Good. Spencer’s hands were sweaty and shaking.

Skinny stood up and straightened his jacket. “Walk out with me?” he asked charmingly, and Spencer shrugged and stood up, heart pounding in his chest. His jaw clenched when he realised that the thug took his position behind him, leaving Spencer sandwiched between the two men. He took in a calming breath, reminding himself that they were in the heart of SoHo, a relatively safe place.

They walked back out to the busy street, the yellow taxis moving slowly in the afternoon traffic. Spencer had no idea how Skinny had timed it, but a black car pulled over in front of them, and Skinny habitually opened the black door with an air of power and influence.

“Spencer Smith,” Skinny said slowly. “I’ve seen you on TV and I’ve seen you in magazines. I must say… you seem much more interesting in real life. And much more sensible than your half-witted brother.”

Spencer said nothing, wanting to punch Skinny for insulting Brendon. “You know how to get in touch with me, I’m sure,” Skinny said, and Spencer nodded cautiously, unable to relax. “Until next time, then.”

Next time. Skinny was still estimating him, unsure what Spencer was capable of. Spencer was doing the same and knew he was getting the easy way out for now.

Skinny got into the car, and his man, who had been standing behind Spencer, suddenly turned him around, curling his gigantic fists around Spencer’s shirt. Spencer was tall but not as tall as this guy. “We’re keeping our eyes on you,” the man boomed as Spencer tried to fight him off. The man let go, violently shoving Spencer backwards, and he instantly lost his balance. Spencer fell down, trying to catch himself but his elbow ended up taking the painful fall.

The car door slammed shut, and Spencer looked up to see the black car taking off. “Fuck,” Spencer muttered, pain radiating from his elbow to his entire arm. He ignored how relieved he felt that he was still alive.

“Spencer?”

Spencer brushed his bangs aside, looking up to see Jon standing in the middle of the street, guitar gig bag hanging loosely from his shoulder, staring at Spencer who was still on his ass amongst all the passers-by. Fuck, shit, fuck.

“Shit, you okay?” Jon asked, offering his hand and pulling Spencer up.

“Yeah, I tripped,” Spencer muttered, trying not to feel stupid about the situation and failing royally. Spencer got up and coughed a little, brushing his clothes but wincing at the pain on his elbow. He turned his arm to see that his jacket had ripped at the elbow, the skin below red from scratching against the asphalt. Jon looked concerned and Spencer said, “Eh, it’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. Spencer scanned the street in paranoia, as if searching for one of Skinny’s men spying on him. His heart kept pounding wildly and he only then realised he was mostly covered in cold sweat.

“Must’ve been a nasty fall,” Jon commented, and Spencer said nothing. He didn’t want Jon’s sympathy over a fictive event. Jon looked back to the café and smiled. “Now I know why you’re in SoHo. Enjoying your famous black coffee, am I right?”

Spencer was slightly surprised. Spencer often forgot that, unlike most people, Jon always paid attention to what other people were saying, and Spencer knew that he had endorsed the café to a select few. Didn’t want to ruin the place by making it the hip, trendy place of the hour, did he? He was sure to keep the place unpopular by meeting up with men like Skinny in it.

“Yeah, got me there,” Spencer agreed, trying to get on top of the situation again. “What you doing here?” he asked, eyeing Jon up and down and desperately needing to change the subject. Spencer could take a punch, but what then? A knife? A bullet? Could he survive those?

“Just walking home,” Jon shrugged. “Had a little jamming session with guys I know that go to Juilliard, it’s always good fun.”

“Juilliard nerds and you in one room. Is this code for groupies or just sad fucks who look up to you as a music god?” Spencer asked, forcing himself to be his usual sarcastic self.

“Well, excuse me, but I cannot gush over the excellence of a nineteen to sixteen time signature with our gang, can I?” Jon asked, and Spencer made an agreeing sound.

“I’ll walk with you,” Spencer offered, and Jon seemed mildly surprised. Spencer was on the other side of Manhattan from his home, and Ryan and Brendon used taxis for ridiculously short distances, but Spencer was too fucking intimated to walk by himself just then. Use Jon as a human shield, unbeknownst to Jon of course. Besides, exercise. Vigorous walking could burn up to two hundred calories in half an hour. Not that they were walking vigorously as they took off, but Jon talked this and that, helping Spencer not to think of Skinny, Brendon, Skinny, Brendon.

Spencer’s life was a leaking roof. Whenever he repaired one spot, the water started coming through somewhere else. Spencer was out of fucking buckets and wanted to sit down and wait for the roof to cave in and bury him under the wreck.

“You okay?” Jon asked.

“Uh huh,” Spencer nodded absently. A few people greeted Spencer, people who Spencer didn’t know but recognised him, and Spencer always gave that forced polite smile. But now, were they really just so-called admirers? What if the schoolgirl was no schoolgirl at all but a part of Skinny’s crew? By now Jon had gotten used to Spencer being recognised, though Ryan always looked sour when it happened. Jon was probably hiding his envy. Spencer took it as a fact that everyone in the world wanted to be him. Right then he couldn’t understand why.

Twenty-one thousand. Where the hell was he gonna get that? He had given Skinny the money he had been intending to use on a new laptop. Never mind, then… He tried not to think about it because the thought alone had his heart rate picking up.

Fuck Brendon. Fuck him throwing this shit on Spencer all the goddamn time.

“Dude. Fuck, you’re bleeding,” Jon interrupted suddenly, grabbing Spencer’s arm and examining the elbow. Spencer twisted his arm to see that there was a scratch there, deep enough for blood to ooze through.

“Classy,” Spencer muttered bitterly.

“I can clean it up, got disinfectant at my place,” Jon offered, and Spencer instantly declined. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home, hide under the covers and tell Brendon to stay away from him for the rest of the day. Week, maybe. Brendon was constantly giving him a headache and not helping with the leaking roof situation at all. Hell, Brendon had taken a shotgun and shot at the roof several times, and Spencer was running around trying to mend it. “You can’t walk around like this either. Let’s go this way,” Jon said, and Spencer wondered why the fuck Jon cared.

They entered Washington Square Park and found themselves an empty bench. Jon put the guitar bag down, pulling his gloves off before examining the elbow again. It stung a little. Spencer let Jon examine it as Jon was obviously trying to do a ‘concerned friend’ routine of some sort.

“Just a scratch, it’s nothing,” Spencer said. It was everything.

“I’ve got,” Jon mumbled, going through his pockets before pulling out a silky, black scarf. Spencer raised an eyebrow at the item but held out his arm as Jon pulled the jacket sleeve up and wrapped the scarf around his elbow. Spencer didn’t feel at ease there, still worried that he was being followed. His heart rate still wasn’t back to normal.

Spencer looked at his elbow and couldn’t help the desperate laugh at the sight. One thing echoed through from his life, from what had been his usual life just an hour before. “Ryan told me you like tying people up,” Spencer said.

Jon froze, looking at Spencer with wide, sceptical eyes. “He told you that?”

“Yeah, he told me just the other day. Any truth in it, Jonathan?” he smirked, eyeing the self-made bandage. Jon had done it well. Maybe Spencer could limp to Jon’s place if he ever got attacked. “I mean, you carry the appropriate equipment around with you.”

Jon took in a deep breath, one of defeat, and rolled the sleeve back down over the now covered elbow. Spencer didn’t thank Jon, he was sure that his gratitude was detectable.

“It’s pretty private,” Jon said diplomatically, and Spencer grinned. It was absurd that Jon was worrying about ‘private’ at a time like that.

“So you _do_ like tying people up. I mean, I’ve done it. Pretty sure everyone’s done it.”

“People have no idea,” Jon blurted out, seemingly regretting the comment just as instantly. Spencer stared him down, giving Jon a look of trust. Really, he just wanted to think of something else, wanted to pretend his life was as it had been before. You thought you knew someone and yet… “People think that if they use handcuffs, it’s bondage,” Jon muttered. “Real bondage, though, is much more than that. Imagine that person being tied down so that they can’t move an inch. Absolute, _complete_ power over the situation. It’s… liberating. It’s like a drug. Fuck Ryan’s coke, he should try tying someone up.”

“Why have we never had this conversation before?” Spencer asked, and Jon almost might have blushed as he looked away. “Well, what else? Or is that it?”

Jon shrugged. “I like ropes and tape. Making knots and, like, ankles as well as wrists. Forcing legs apart, I mean, you know… It’s not even that you are the one in control, it’s that the other person has willingly given you access to their… well, body. Like, looking at someone and knowing that… I can’t explain it,” Jon sighed. “I don’t even know why the fuck I’m telling you.”

Spencer chuckled as Jon shifted uncomfortably. “Having power is a drug,” he agreed, throat tightening as once again he recalled Skinny.

“Or not having it.”

“Come again?”

“Well, I – I mean, my… turn on would be having the power. And then the other person’s would be not having any. Just letting someone else take control for a while, you know? Some people get off on that. And some girls freak the fuck out over the thought, I mean, a lot of people do. But people wouldn’t do that shit if it didn’t feel good. If it didn’t feel… fucking amazing,” Jon finished with a low, low laugh and a disbelieving shake of the head. “Yeah, well, now my secret’s out. Whatever. I can take it like a man.”

Spencer was completely absorbed in Jon’s words now, taking in every single piece of information. Jon was right, Spencer had never done anything more extreme than handcuffs; shitty, cheap handcuffs that had given way halfway through.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Spencer asked, knowing he had already asked several and that Jon would concede. Jon nodded, the slight blush still on his cheeks as they both observed street performers not too far away, trying to earn a buck or two. “You ever had anal sex?”

“Yeah. I mean, with a girl, obviously.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Jon shrugged. “Sure.”

Jon had apparently decided that he had done his share of opening up for one day, saying nothing at all and definitely not looking at Spencer. Spencer had always had power. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Currently definitely less. The thought of not having any was completely foreign to him.

Spencer turned his blue eyes to Jon who reluctantly met his gaze. “If I asked you to fuck me, would you?” Spencer prompted, and Jon somehow managed to choke on the air he was breathing.


	6. Handcuffs

Handcuffs.

“Be right back,” Spencer said, walking out and leaving Jon in his bedroom with Brendon’s handcuffs.

Jon was not going to do this. Brendon’s handcuffs were a cheap make, one of those toy ones, not _real_ handcuffs like Jon’s. Jon had several. He had the type that the police used, but those could be painful. If you weren’t into pain, then Jon had handcuffs that had thick, three-inch leather bands, each band with three locks. Those weren’t painful, they couldn’t slip off, and they were easy to attach to, well.

Jon’s eyes stopped as he looked at the barred headboard of Spencer’s bed.

Jon was not going to do this. Yeah, okay, he had _said_ he was going to do it but he had said yes out of pure fucking shock. Now they were back at Spencer’s, Spencer had retrieved his brother’s handcuffs and said something about belts or scarves or improvisation, Jon wasn’t sure because his mind was slowly catching up with what the hell was going on.

He was so not going to do this.

Spencer came back into the room with a lopsided smile. “Well, just said goodbye to Grandpa. Grace is taking him to the airport and then is meeting her friends. We are quite alone. Well, except for Lucía but we don’t have to worry about her,” Spencer said with a shrug.

Jon made a random sound that might have sounded half-agreeing.

Spencer easily locked the door, and to Jon the small click sounded like a maniac beating a gong with all his might. “The handcuffs any good?” Spencer asked, all business like, and Jon looked down to the handcuffs with pink, fluffy padding (trust Brendon to buy them in pink).

“Not really,” Jon said, his voice coming out muffled.

It wasn’t that Spencer wasn’t good-looking. Spencer was more than handsome, always had been. Spencer took care of his body and it showed. Jon liked that in women. But Spencer was not a woman. Spencer was lacking vital body parts, like a fucking vagina.

Jon was not going to fuck Spencer. He really, really wasn’t.

“The handcuffs aren’t usable?” Spencer asked, walking over and taking them back. Spencer’s fingers brushed his in the exchange, and Jon flinched. His heart kept hammering inside his chest, all his senses electrified.

“M-My own stuff is better. I mean, these are…” Jon attempted to explain.

“I suppose you could always use scarves to tie me to the headboard,” Spencer said, going to the other side of the room and opening the door to his walk-in wardrobe. Jon shifted his weight nervously from one leg to another, unable to take his eyes off Spencer, off Spencer’s curves, Spencer’s ass, Spencer’s broad, masculine shoulders.

Spencer Smith. Jon had never, ever been able to read the man. At first he had been relatively sure that Spencer didn’t like him very much, but only after a few months of them having known each other Jon had found out that Spencer had publicly humiliated a guy who had talked shit about him. A completely made up story about Jon having raped some girl back in Chicago, and Spencer had called out the guy’s bullshit and defended Jon. Jon had been unaware of the drama for a day until the news reached him, and when he had brought it up with Spencer, Spencer had shrugged and said, “It was nothing. No one messes with us.” Jon remembered it clearly. He had been accepted into “us”. But even so, Spencer had always kept him at arm’s length. Now? Hell, Spencer wanted to do the exact opposite.

Jon was confused. He was terrified. He wasn’t disgusted by the thought, and that was why he was terrified.

Spencer came back out with a red silk scarf running between his fingers. “I only have this. Not enough, probably.”

“I can gag you with that,” Jon’s mouth said, and Jon instantly disowned his mouth because what the hell? He had been meaning to say that he was so fucking out of there.

“Gagging?” Spencer asked with a quirked eyebrow before nodding casually. “Yeah, why not.”

Spencer’s _voice_. Suddenly an octave lower and husky, and Jon had never heard it like that. This was not happening. Jon was having a ridiculously vivid dream, a twisted, _twisted_ dream, and he wanted to wake up (though he had a feeling he might wake up with soiled sheets, and really, he was twenty-three and should have been way past that shit).

Spencer went to his nightstand, opening the top drawer, and Jon kept thinking a very simple question: what the fuck, for the love of god, was he doing there?

“Rules,” Spencer stated simply as he came back, and Jon got a lump in his throat as he saw what Spencer had retrieved. “One. You can only put your tongue, fingers or dick in me. Nothing else.” Spencer probably noticed how Jon stopped breathing altogether as he added, “Not saying you have to fuck my ass with your tongue, I’m saying you can if you want to. Two. You use a fucking condom.”

Spencer handed Jon the pack of condoms, and Jon took it like he actually was going to do this. He knew he wasn’t, hell no, he was just playing along for some ridiculous reason he didn’t know.

“Three. Prep me and do it properly. If you don’t prep me, I swear to god that you will be sorry when you untie me,” Spencer said, now handing Jon lube. Lube, Jon knew lube. He used lube when he jerked off, to make it easier to stroke his cock. “Four,” Spencer said significantly, and Jon looked into Spencer’s piercing blue eyes. “You better get me off.”

Jon gulped, his heart beating fatal speeds. This was not even having sex with another dude, this was having sex with _Spencer_.

Spencer knew Jon had never done this. Not that Jon was going to do this, because, well, to do this Jon would have to be turned on. He wasn’t turned on because he was straight. Right? Right.

His cock was semi-hard, trapped between his jeans and left thigh.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Now, do I need a safe word or something?” Spencer asked and pulled off his shirt. Spencer was undressing, and Jon had to avert his gaze but his eyes simply landed on Spencer’s bed, the bedcovers perfectly made. Lucía, naturally.

“I, er, I, um…” Jon began, clearing his throat, lube in one hand, pack of condoms in the other. “No. No safe word, this, um… is pretty basic, you don’t need to…”

Jon didn’t do safe words, anyway. That stuff was more for S&M, and this wasn’t like that at all. Spencer had removed his shirt, and okay, Jon had seen Spencer shirtless. How the fuck could Spencer act like this situation was not the most awkward situation he had ever been in?

Jon stood still, not daring to say a single thing as Spencer easily stripped down to his underwear. There was a bulge visible through the fabric of Spencer’s dark green boxers, and Jon’s fingers tingled as he was suddenly unable to look away. Spencer loosened the scarf Jon had wrapped around his wounded elbow, wincing slightly as he pulled it off and let it drop on the floor. Spencer wasn’t bleeding anymore but the skin had turned a nasty shade of blue. “Not too bad,” Spencer said conversationally, and Jon had forgotten how to speak. Spencer looked at him with an arched eyebrow before rolling his eyes.

“Christ, Jonathan,” Spencer said as he closed the distance between the two of them. Spencer grabbed his crotch, hand tracing his half-hard cock, and Jon inhaled sharply, trying not to fucking tremble. This was getting pathetic, almost. Spencer stepped even closer, leaning to Jon’s ear, his bare skin pressing against Jon. Jon could smell Spencer, his eyes fixed on Spencer’s collarbone to avoid eye contact.

“Stop freaking the fuck out,” Spencer whispered, lips almost brushing Jon’s earlobe. “It’s just sex.”

Just sex. Okay. Yeah. That made sense. Jon decided to hang onto that one bit of information, biting back a moan as Spencer’s hand rubbed his cock. His friend Spencer was touching his dick. Okay. Just sex. Sure. Jon had just sex all the time, sometimes shoving his cock up a tight ass. Just… with a dude this time.

Spencer stepped back, taking back the condoms and lube. “Strip,” he said simply and turned around, padding cosily to his bed. Jon’s hands shook, and he kept telling himself he wasn’t really doing this, but that voice was becoming harder and harder to hear, drowned out by the list of swear words filling Jon’s mind as he struggled to pull off his shirt. By the time he had stripped down to his boxers (it took pathetically little time, like he was fucking eager, and yet he had been clumsy like an unsure virgin), Spencer had walked back over, now with the silky red scarf he had retrieved.

Spencer handed it to Jon who took it. This was so fucking absurd.

“So… you can do your thing now,” Spencer said quietly and looked at him through his eyelashes, and Jon flinched again. Spencer’s tone was no longer bossy and commanding like it had been so far. It was meek.

Spencer looked at Jon with big eyes, and Jon looked at the scarf that felt smooth in his hands. It was all in his hands now.

“Open… open your mouth.”

His voice was so quiet he barely heard it, but Spencer simply obeyed, not looking away from Jon once. Jon forced his hands to remain still as he took the red scarf and placed it between Spencer parted lips. It looked obscene, it was obscene, and Jon’s cock twitched. Jon tied the ends of the scarf behind Spencer’s head, their bare chests touching as Jon moved closer to do it. Spencer was warm.

Just sex. Okay.

Jon’s lips were right next to Spencer’s earlobe, and he hadn’t touched Spencer at all yet. He closed his eyes and cautiously took the lobe between his lips, sucking it. He was sucking another guy’s earlobe, and Spencer tensed up, the good kind of tensing up, and Jon pulled back, scared of his own treacherous actions. Spencer wasn’t fazed, but Jon couldn’t read Spencer at all.

Jon knew what to do. He knew this, he had done it before. He placed his hands on Spencer’s shoulders, guiding them towards Spencer’s bed. Jon was really not going to do this, he was just playing along. The air was electric and static, and Jon couldn’t breathe steadily.

“Hands and knees,” Jon told Spencer, who obliged instantly, obediently, _submissively_. Jon bit his tongue and tried to control his nerves as they got on the bed.

He was actually going to do this. It was clear that he was, but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t form any cohesive thoughts as he grabbed the handcuffs and took his place behind Spencer, Spencer who was in his boxers and gagged with the scarf. Spencer’s back was bare, skin skin skin as far as Jon could reach, flawless skin with Spencer’s spine sticking out.

Maybe Jon was exploring. It was cliché to experiment when one was young, and maybe that was what he was doing. He had no idea as he reached for the handcuffs on the bed, taking them in his hands.

Spencer had his hands curled into fists around two bars of the headboard, waiting, making Jon’s job so fucking easy. Jon moved to the side slightly, moving up to slide the other cuff around one of the vertical bars and under the horizontal bottom bar to limit Spencer’s movements as much as possible. The bars were close together, but with handcuffs like Brendon’s the space still allowed some movement. Jon’s own handcuffs would have allowed none. They were handcuffs where the leather band could easily be attached right onto a bar similar to what Spencer’s bed had. But Jon had to do with the pink ones, stolen from Brendon, and be content that Spencer could only move a few inches. Jon noticed how sweaty his hands were as he handcuffed Spencer to the headboard. Spencer kept his arms outstretched, head hanging between them, and Jon was glad Spencer couldn’t look at him.

Spencer was breathing in heavily, and Jon ran his fingers down Spencer’s back when he moved back down on the bed. Jon could feel the muscles flex beneath his fingers.

Jon moved on automatic when he positioned himself behind Spencer, who now was tied to the headboard, the clinging of metal against metal sounding in the thick air of the room. Jon didn’t hesitate when he slid Spencer’s boxers down, over the younger man’s ass and down to his thighs. Spencer lifted his knees and Jon slid them off all the way. Jon swore himself to fucking hell as he stared at Spencer’s naked form, he swore himself to hell, his throbbing cock especially.

Spencer’s ass was pale and perfect, Spencer’s balls, definitely not a sight Jon was used to, but there they were, hanging between Spencer’s spread legs, and Jon couldn’t look away.

Jon grabbed the lube and opened it, remembering what Spencer had said. Prep him properly. Jon’s best friends were Spencer, Ryan and Brendon, Jon fucking well knew all there was to know about gay sex, thanks. Not to mention Jon had heard and seen things on tour, and he knew plenty of people who had done this, and he tried to remind himself of that. Ryan liked giving details just because he knew it disgusted Jon. Funnily enough, Jon was not feeling disgusted as he poured lube on two of his fingers (Two? Three? Two or three? Fuck, Ryan could have been more specific).

Spencer made a quiet, muffled sound against the scarf when Jon ran a slicked up finger over his asshole. Jon genuinely wondered what it felt like, a sudden curiosity pushing through. He pushed in his index finger, not sure what to expect. It sank in smoothly and without resistance; Spencer was hot and tight around the digit, the feel of it not completely unfamiliar from what Jon had done before with girls. Spencer shuddered, and Jon could almost follow the shudder move up Spencer’s spine. Spencer spread his legs slightly, and Jon wished they had proper equipment, that Spencer’s legs were tied too somehow.

Nonetheless Jon took it as a good sign and added in a second, this time feeling Spencer’s muscles clench around his fingers. Spencer made another small, quiet sound, arms strained and muscles quivering. Jon tried not to stare, tried to ignore how intimate it felt to have Spencer moan at the push of his fingers.

Jon worked his fingers in knuckle deep, keeping his free hand on the cleft of Spencer’s ass, the skin smooth under his palm. Spencer’s command of getting him off rung in Jon’s ears, and Jon fumbled, twisting his fingers in hopes of a reaction. He had never fingered a guy, how the hell was he supposed to know where – Spencer inhaled sharply, a moan filling up the entire room. Jon brushed his fingers over the same spot again, earning a similar reaction. Jon felt relieved, pushing his two fingers against Spencer’s prostate and quickening the slide of his fingers. Spencer’s groans were muffled but also strained, like he was trying to hold back. The handcuffs kept clinging against the headboard, Spencer trying to move but unable to. Jon added a third, making Spencer’s body still entirely, but after a minute Spencer had relaxed into it.

Jon worried whether or not he had prepped Spencer enough, but the muscles were relaxed. Spencer didn’t feel as impossibly, impossibly tight anymore, and Jon’s cock was hard, so fucking hard that he decided Spencer was ready. Jon shoved his own boxers down, getting them off him not very gracefully but Spencer couldn’t see him anyway. He rolled the condom on, adding plenty of lube because he didn’t want Spencer’s wrath afterwards for not having done this part properly.

It was only as Jon was lined up behind Spencer, his latex-clothed erection pressing against Spencer’s stretched hole, that Jon realised what exactly he was going to do. And not just with a guy, but with Spencer. He had wanted to fuck the mother and ended up fucking the son instead. Where was the logic? His brain screamed no, but his body, well, a definite yes.

“Fuck,” Jon blurted out when he pushed the tip of his cock in, the head slipping past the tight ring of muscle.

Spencer shifted with another muffled sound, and Jon gripped his hips forcefully to keep the younger man still. Tight, _tight_ heat was all around his cock, and he kept pushing into the heat, into his friend’s body. Spencer wasn’t moaning and he wasn’t groaning, but he made sounds, and Jon hoped that it felt at least a fraction as good for him.

Jon came to a stop when his cock was fully inside Spencer. He needed to catch his breath and get used to it, because he wasn’t. He was _not_ used to this. Spencer’s skin was turning white under his fingertips, and Jon realised he was nearly bruising Spencer. He loved bruising people. Fuck, it turned him on to see the reddened marks on otherwise flawless skin. He wanted to see it on Spencer because it was wrong, obscene and hot.

Jon didn’t go slow. He began fucking Spencer, fast and brutal. He let his hips do the work, letting his cock slide in and out of the ass in front of him. He couldn’t deny that it felt amazing. It felt better than he ever could have imagined. And Spencer, Spencer was on the bed, unable to move much at all, panting against the scarf tied around his head, just taking it.

Jon closed his eyes and let his fingers skim over Spencer’s back, finding their way to where their bodies were joined. Jon let his fingers feel there, feel the slide of his cock into Spencer. He tried to memorise the angle of his fingers from before, unsuccessfully searching to the point of frustration before hearing the hitch in Spencer’s breathing again. He wondered what it felt like, but as he thrust in and hit Spencer’s prostate, he was sure it felt pretty fucking amazing. Spencer trembled, a loud moan cutting through the silence. Jon loved the fact that he could go fast, slow, stop altogether, and Spencer was helpless and at his mercy.

Spencer could list rules and try and impose his authority for all he liked, but once Jon had him tied up and gagged, it was all about trust. Spencer had to trust that Jon wouldn’t hurt him or do something Spencer didn’t want. Spencer had to trust Jon, and Spencer had never particularly seemed to have done that. Right here was all Jon had ever really wanted from Spencer, and the knowledge had Jon’s insides catching fire, waves of desire running through him.

“Jesus,” Jon gasped as Spencer’s muscles clenched around him, grabbing onto his cock and squeezing, and Jon went even faster, mesmerised and driven absolutely insane by it. Sweat was rolling down his neck and he kept pounding in, listening to the increasingly louder sounds Spencer made.

It was building up, he could feel it as his toes curled, but he didn’t want to come yet. He closed his eyes and sucked in his bottom lip, telling himself to calm down, calm down, calm down, fuck - Spencer’s muscles were clenching again as Jon’s cock brushed his prostate, clenching tight and perfect, and the hot heat was overwhelming.

“Oh _god_ ,” Jon groaned, and he had lost the battle.

Jon came, body trembling at the force of it, his hips jerking as he emptied himself into the condom. He almost collapsed on top of his partner, keeping his hands on Spencer’s hips and forehead pressed against Spencer’s spine. He could have lasted a bit longer, he should have. Fuck. Oh _fuck_ , that had been…

Jon groaned, the aftershocks still washing over him, barely aware of the sudden amount of endless skin to skin contact. He pulled out slowly, reluctantly, because fuck. Spencer let out a small, distressed sound, and Jon realised that he hadn’t delivered yet. Spencer hadn’t come yet.

Jon’s heart was beating wildly as he reached over Spencer’s body to unlock the handcuffs. He fumbled, unable to keep his hands steady at all first, but he managed it, freeing Spencer’s wrists. He instantly saw bruises from the handcuffs, and his softening cock twitched. Jon moved back, slipping an arm around Spencer’s middle and hauling Spencer’s upper body against his sweaty chest. Spencer’s warm back pressed against his chest and stomach, Spencer’s head instantly dropping onto his shoulder.

Spencer had his eyes closed, and Jon was nervous, petrified, as he reached around the younger man’s body, searching fingers dancing down Spencer’s taut stomach and over rough pubic hair, finally landing on a swollen, flushed cock that was not his own. He couldn’t believe he was freaking out over touching a guy’s cock after fucking Spencer’s ass, but he was.

Spencer had pre-come at the tip, and Jon gave the cock an experimental tug, the angle of his wrist slightly awkward. Spencer inhaled, and Jon saw a damp spot on the scarf covering Spencer’s mouth. The fabric quivered inwards on the inhales, back out on the exhales, and Spencer had hair stuck to his forehead.

Jon began jerking Spencer off, doing it quick and rough because he wanted this to be fast. Spencer’s body was shaking against his, wired and tense, and Spencer smelled of sex and sweat and Jon and himself, and it was a perverted, masculine combination that filled Jon’s nostrils and made his heart beat faster. Jon rubbed his thumb over the leaking slit of Spencer’s cock, hearing Spencer try and form incomprehensible words when he did so. Spencer came quickly, hot semen suddenly decorating Jon’s fingers and the sheets, and Jon stopped what he was doing, hand still on Spencer’s cock.

Spencer’s head was on his shoulder, and Spencer was taking in deep breaths, skin flushed and eyelashes stuck to his cheeks. Spencer looked breathtaking like that.

Jon felt horror creeping upon him, a full-blown panic already lurking at the back of his brain. He couldn’t look at Spencer, couldn’t look at himself as he kept Spencer’s body pressed to his, frozen on his friend’s bed in a mostly deserted condo on the Upper East Side as Brendon’s tainted handcuffs lay idly on the bed.

They were coming down, the haze dissolving, and Jon wasn’t sure if he could ever look anyone in the eye after this. And Spencer Smith, who was gorgeous and full of raw sexual energy, was coming down in his arms. Spencer’s come dripped off Jon’s fingers.

Spencer’s eyes were still closed, and for that… for that Jon was glad.

* * *

Ryan wasn’t very punctual himself but he hated waiting around for people. He usually stayed outside the building, sucking the end of a cigarette, but he had just finished his second and none of his calls had been picked up. He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, making his way inside. They recognised him at the front desk and didn’t ask him where he was going.

Lucía, forever obedient and endlessly hardworking, opened the door and let him in with forced politeness. Ryan was feeling worn out. Three days since his last hit, three days of smoking strong pot, and he hadn’t done the latter since yesterday. The craving was coming stronger and stronger, and he thought of the cocaine he had back home, so glorious and tempting.

Ryan didn’t knock when he pushed the living room door open, but slowed down in his steps as his eyes landed on Jon sitting on the couch. “Walker, you here too?” he asked, and Jon jumped at the sound of his voice, disorientated eyes landing on him.

“Ryan. Hey. Hi. What’s up?” Jon asked with an obvious nervous edge to him.

“Trying to find Spencer,” he said slowly, and Jon averted his gaze with a guilty expression. Ryan’s brows furrowed as he wondered what the fuck was wrong with Jon. “Is Brendon here?”

“No. Don’t know where he is. Partying, shopping, you know,” Jon said with a shrug and examined the carpet.

“And Spencer?” Ryan asked because it wasn’t very likely Jon was hanging at the Smith-Uries by himself.

“Here,” Spencer’s voice came, and Ryan turned to see Spencer walk from his bedroom, pulling on a shirt. Spencer’s hair was wet from a shower and he brushed bangs out of the way. “Shit, I’m late, aren’t I?” Spencer said as realisation dawned on him, and Ryan nodded. “Jon, you want to come to the gym with us?” Spencer asked.

Jon stood up quickly and shook his head. He kept his eyes cast downwards. “No, uh, that’s… I have other things. Other stuff to do, I should get going, actually. So… yeah. Yeah,” Jon concluded and nodded, scratching his nose and heading for the door.

Ryan lifted his eyebrows at Spencer, who didn’t react.

“Jonathan,” Spencer called out, and Jon froze at the door, reluctantly looking back. “I’ll catch you later,” Spencer said slowly, articulating clearly as if Jon might otherwise misunderstand.

It took Jon a second to respond. “Yeah. You guys… have a good work out.”

The second the door closed Ryan laughed. “What the fuck was that about?”

Spencer shrugged, grabbing a hoodie from the couch and pulling it on. Brendon’s lavender hoodie, Ryan recognised it. He didn’t like the way Spencer and Brendon shared clothes.

“I’ll get the car down,” Spencer said, and five minutes later they were in the back of the silver Rolls-Royce Phantom Ryan adored. He wished that his parents would buy him a car, but no, they said he already had everything and that a car was completely useless in New York City. Maybe that was true but it didn’t stop the Smith-Uries from having this car and that black limousine, oh, not to mention David has his own Jaguar.

“Tom, do you know where Brendon is?” Spencer asked the chauffeur, and Ryan’s ears picked up.

“I drove Mr. Urie to Little Italy earlier today. He was meeting up with a friend and said he was attending a club opening tonight,” Tom replied, and Spencer gave Ryan a knowing look. Ryan knew full well what Brendon was doing in Little Italy. That what’s-her-face lived there, Ryan couldn’t even remember the name, but knew she was one of Brendon’s fuck buddies. Brendon Urie was fucking insatiable.

“Did you get an invitation?” Spencer asked and Ryan frowned. “To the club opening. I’m not planning on going.”

“Yeah, I got one but I have other things to do,” Ryan muttered. It was a lie. He hadn’t received an invite, he wasn’t a celebrity like Spencer and Brendon, and inside he seethed. Had the invitation been to bring along a date? Maybe that’s why Brendon was in Little Italy, eating the pussy of a scenester slut; maybe she would be his date later on.

Ryan would never be Brendon’s date, no. Ryan was a man.

They got to the highly exclusive and ridiculously priced gym, marching in and being greeted with “Mr. Smith, Mr. Ross.” At least these people knew Ryan’s status and treated him with the respect he deserved.

“Good evening!” the man behind the reception said with a bright smile. The brown-haired man was tall and thin and looked a bit like a model and was the spitting image of what gyms like those were selling. Ryan’s eyes lingered on the man as he was sure he hadn’t seen the receptionist before.

“Evening,” Spencer said, handing over his membership card to be logged into the system.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” the man said, eyes widening slightly as he recognised Spencer. He swiped Ryan’s card, flashing them a smile and asking if they were familiar with how everything worked. They were, naturally, as they had their own lockers where they kept their shoes and shirts. They were already heading for the door that led them away from the feng shui perfect reception, a water statue and plants and marble floors, when the man called, “Mr. Smith?”

They both stopped and the receptionist gave them a sheepish, unsure smile. Oh god, he was going to ask for an autograph, Ryan knew it.

“Your hoodie. You seem to be…” the man muttered, and Spencer twisted his arm and Ryan saw a dark red spot on his elbow.

“Oh fantastic, this is fantastic,” Spencer muttered with an exaggerated sigh.

“Dude, what the hell?” Ryan frowned at the blood oozing through the fabric.

“It’s just a scratch, it had already closed up,” Spencer explained. “Goddammit.”

“I’ll be right back,” the receptionist informed the woman behind the counter with him, and she nodded an, “Okay, William.”

The receptionist, presumably William, walked over and said, “I can take care of it if you just come this way.”

Spencer shrugged and they followed William, walking down a few familiar corridors before finding themselves in the Staff Only area. The gym was spotless and shiny and reeking of money in the public areas, but the Staff Only kitchen/back room was simplistic and mundane. Spencer pulled off his hoodie as he sat down by the table where someone’s unfinished cup of coffee was getting cold next to a pile of old newspapers.

“How’d you get that?” Ryan asked as he saw the nasty bruise on Spencer’s elbow, blood coming through the skin in a thousand microscopic dots.

“Fell down on my ass in the middle of the street earlier. Extremely stylish of me.”

Ryan snorted at the mental image, pleased to know that even men like Spencer Smith could trip on their own two feet.

William took out a first aid kid, giving them both a polite, professional smile and sitting across from Spencer, who patiently held out his arm.

William was an extremely good-looking man. Ryan didn’t pay much attention to such things usually, but William was noticeable. He had brown hair tucked behind his ears as he pressed a disinfectant-soaked cotton ball against Spencer’s elbow, making Spencer hiss in a breath as he tapped it.

“Quite a fall, eh?” William asked. “Even your wrist is bruised.”

Ryan, too, noticed the dark mark around Spencer’s wrist.

“Yeah, a bad fall,” Spencer agreed.

William chuckled to himself, and Spencer raised an eyebrow. “It just feels surreal to be meeting you in real life, Mr. Smith.”

Spencer managed half a smile. “Call me Spencer. Mr. Smith makes me feel old.”

“Spencer,” William said, tasting the word on his tongue. William’s eyes flickered over to Ryan, and Ryan stared back unblinkingly. Most people would have turned their gaze away, unable to stand the direct eye contact, but William didn’t even flinch. “And am I to call you Mr. Ross?”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan. Ryan Ross?” William asked, and Ryan nodded. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Oh really?”

William grinned sheepishly, now getting out a bandage and carefully placing it on Spencer’s arm. “Yeah. Occasionally I manage to get on guest lists for exclusive clubs. I live with this guy, Gabe, he DJs sometimes so I get to tag along. You know, best friend privileges. But whenever I go, it’s pretty much guaranteed I hear someone say the name Ryan Ross. Always wondered who this mysterious man was,” William said, and it was music to Ryan’s ears. Maybe the paparazzi didn’t run after him but over the years he had been gaining more and more status as a New Yorker who was famous simply for being famous. Ryan tried to see a hint of envy on Spencer’s face but Spencer only looked at his elbow, now properly attended to.

“Does the real thing live up to the reputation?” Ryan asked with a suggestive smile, and yes, he was flirting but fuck it.

William laughed, cheeks suddenly a light pink. “Um… yeah. Absolutely.” The receptionist began to put the first aid kit equipment away, smiling slightly. Spencer rolled his eyes at Ryan, indicating that he was being his usual whore-ish self. Oh yeah? Well, what about Spencer’s stepbrother? Everyone should take a look at Brendon Urie before calling Ryan a slut.

He missed Brendon.

“Thanks for patching me up,” Spencer said and tucked Brendon’s hoodie under his arm, easily pulling out his wallet and handing William a twenty.

William seemed slightly taken aback but took it. “Oh. Thank you.”

Spencer only gave William that easy smile that had so many people adoring Spencer Smith.

“Right, Ryan. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Ryan nodded, eyes still on William. Ryan tried to remember the last time he had felt attracted to someone who wasn’t Brendon, and he couldn’t quite remember it. “William, was it?”

“Yeah,” the man confirmed.

Spencer was already at the door as Ryan let his eyes roam up and down the man’s form. “A pleasure meeting you,” he said simply, leaving William watch him quizzically. He recalled what Brendon had said a few days before and knew that, he too, was a chasee. He didn’t chase people. Well… maybe with one exception but he would never admit to that.

“You have a one track mind,” Spencer said the second they got to the changing room. Ryan only rolled his shoulders and sat on the bench to untie his shoelaces.

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted. His friends needed to think he was just like them. Sex meant nothing, no one meant anything. Brendon meant nothing.

“The guy was straight.”

“Was not,” Ryan nearly scoffed.

Spencer pulled his shirt over his head. “You always go for the ones you can’t get, don’t you?”

Ryan froze, looking up from his shoes. “What?”

Spencer turned around, cocking his hips and shrugging. “Like that one time you went for that girl who was engaged.”

“But I got her, didn’t I?” he asked pointedly, leaving out the fact that he had actually gone for the guy and just told everyone it had been the girl. The couple had split up after that, Ryan didn’t know why. Maybe because the guy had realised he enjoyed having a cock up his ass or maybe because they couldn’t agree on a theme for their wedding.

“Fair point,” Spencer admitted, now pulling on his workout shorts. Ryan saw more bruising on Spencer’s hips, and fuck, it must have been a bad fall. He almost felt sympathetic. “But William was not queer, maybe a bit star struck,” Spencer went on to say. “Didn’t flip his hair or have a lisp or talk with his hands. Conclusion? Not gay.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ryan snapped, pulling on a shirt and resisting the urge to say something about stereotyping. He finished getting changed and said, “It doesn’t matter, though. Even if this William guy was the gayest man alive, I wouldn’t fuck him. A receptionist at my gym? Please, I have more class than that.”

Spencer laughed and they walked out, heading down the corridor towards the room with the treadmills.

“I try to stay away from gay men,” Spencer said. “The problem with them is that, well, they are _gay_. They might get the wrong idea and start following you around, making googly eyes at you as they go. There’s a difference between love and lust, men like you and me get that. Gay guys don’t, and it’s not even flattering, it’s just sad.”

Ryan nodded in agreement, feeling his chest tighten painfully.

“Hey, I’m gonna go in here.”

Ryan stopped and frowned at the room Spencer was pointing at. He looked through the glass window. “Punching bags?”

Spencer rubbed his knuckles. “Yeah. You know, why not?”

“Planning on getting into a fight?” Ryan smirked. Spencer himself had told Ryan that he was a pacifist through and through.

“Just in case, if you know what I mean. And I’ve heard it’s pretty relaxing, just punching one of those things until you can’t feel your hands.”

Ryan didn’t like the thought of punching something repeatedly, so he only nodded and let Spencer do his thing. He went to the treadmills and chose an empty one amongst beautiful, perspiring New Yorkers, wondering why Spencer had suddenly decided that punching things was a necessary skill.

Five minutes in, he saw William cross the room, and William gave him a smile. So not straight.

It hardly made a difference, though. Ryan had a reputation he did not entirely deserve, and these days most of his romantic conquests were half-lies. Ryan hadn’t fucked anyone other than Brendon in nearly two months. Monogamy was utter bullshit, especially when the other party was extremely polygamous. Ryan didn’t know what he was trying to prove and running on the treadmill made him feel no better about it at all. Spencer reminded him of Brendon, and he didn’t want to think of Brendon Urie all the damn time.

Spencer was right. It wasn’t flattering, it was a bit sad. Ryan, at the end of the day… was just a bit sad.

He stopped running, sweat pushing through at his hairline, and let the conveyor belt carry him backwards, and he jumped and landed on the floor just in time. He sulked out and knew he was going to get high, get so fucked on cocaine that he’d forget what defined someone’s sexuality and what it potentially could mean.

His own friends would disown him.

By the time Spencer found him in the locker room, Ryan had finished a joint and was feeling much better. Spencer looked like he wanted to comment on Ryan’s wretched ways but didn’t.

Ryan’s hands kept shaking.

People took care of their mortal bodies and pathetic souls in different ways.  



	7. Gay

Gay.

It didn’t always mean what it meant now. Back in the day, children were gay or someone could give a gay greeting. The Vatican? A gay little country, oh yes, a must-see! By the nineteenth century, the word referred to a prostitute. Were prostitutes gay and cheerful as they went about their work? Jon guessed so. Sapphire seemed happy enough most of the time. And, finally, by the twentieth century gay meant a homosexual, and the word had lost all of its merriment. You didn’t vote in the presidential election? Well, that was gay. We have an exam coming up? So gay!

It was negative. People didn’t mean anything by it, it was just a word to be used like any other, but it was a derogatory term nonetheless, one that was also used to describe a person with a specific sexual preference. The connection was obvious.

Jon didn’t like the word. It had never bothered him before, but now it did.

He kept counting the bricks of the building opposite, starting over whenever he reached one hundred and sixteen. It seemed like a good number to stop at. He felt heavy, his feet glued to the ground. He shouldn’t have been in that situation, and he cursed whatever insignificant reason had led him to be there.

People kept walking through the doors of the building, and he kept his eye on it, waiting for someone in particular. At last, a girl walked out, laughing loudly with a group of fellow students. Jon waved at her slightly, catching her attention, and she waved back, taking a few more minutes to say goodbye to her friends. Like Jon had nothing better to do…

“Hi, Jon,” Matt said when she finally made her way over. “It was nice of you to ask me for lunch!”

“Yeah,” is all Jon said in return. The two of them were in the same circles, but they didn’t do any exclusive hanging out. Jon certainly had never offered to buy her lunch either.

They walked a few blocks down to the best pizza place in the Village, and Matt talked about her geology course, how they were doing glaciation and how interesting it was. Jon made agreeing hums and did some head nodding, ordering a pepperoni pizza with double cheese because he was feeling pretty sorry for himself. His heart felt heavy, probably around the weight of a hundred and sixteen bricks. Matt got a Caesar salad, and Jon thought it offensive that she ordered a bunch of lettuce in a pizzeria.

Jon ate one slice of his pizza before saying, “So I sort of need your help with something.”

“Oh?” Matt said and lifted an eyebrow, forkful of salad stopping midair.

“I have this friend who has this problem, and well, I thought you might have some insight into it, so I told my friend that I’d ask,” Jon explained, clearing his throat and taking a sip of his drink. Matt was the only person he had known who might help him with this. He had music friends with dubious sexualities, but they weren’t connected to New York elite and wouldn’t be able to understand the issue.

Matt grinned. “Is this friend you?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Fuck no, it’s not me. Seriously. If it was me, I wouldn’t do the lame ‘I have this friend’ bullshit because everyone knows it’s code for you. Give me some credit.”

“Okay,” Matt said, putting the fork down. “Go for it.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “So my friend, this girl I know. I won’t name her because you might know her. Better to keep it anonymous. Point is that she’s heterosexual, right? But then, recently, she sort of had sex with another girl, and now she’s, like, confused and stuff, and then I told her that lesbian sex is a beautiful thing, but it didn’t help her much. But you dated a girl last year, didn’t you?”

Matt nodded, and Jon said, “Yeah, I thought so, hence me coming to you about this.”

Matt’s plucked eyebrows formed a thin line as she dug into her salad again, and Jon waited, feeling fucking stupid because Matt would never, ever buy his ridiculous story.

“So what’s the problem? She’s just freaked out?” Matt asked eventually.

“Yeah. Like, does it mean she’s a lesbian?”

“Slept with a girl just one time?” Matt clarified, and Jon nodded, taking another bite of his pizza casually like this matter was of pure friendly interest to him, not a defining moment in his life. “Fucking a girl once doesn’t make you a lesbian,” Matt said with a roll of her eyes. “I dated Lydia for three months and we did it on a nearly daily basis, and you know what? I’m not a lesbian either.”

Jon scratched the side of his head, thinking that he wasn’t gay, thank god, thank fuck, he could not be put into those three demeaning letters, oh thank god. “So what are you?”

“Me?” Matt asked. “I’m just going with the flow.”

Jon groaned in frustration. “That is just bullshit! I am sick of this free love mentality people have! Straight, bi, gay, you gotta pick one! You can’t just shrug and do whatever you want! People are afraid of labelling themselves, but you know what? You gotta label yourself. If you don’t, you end up with no words to describe yourself at all. Going with the flow? It’s like being agnostic, too afraid to say either way. You have to make a decision and stick to it.”

Matt shrugged. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

“I disown my own generation,” Jon grumbled, angry with no one in particular. He knew people who fucked guys and saw it as sexual release and nothing else. He had especially seen it on tour, hormonal men stuck on a bus together. He couldn’t understand how someone could do that and still claim they were perfectly straight.

“Look, your friend did a bit of experimenting. People do that stuff all the time. She needs to chill and, I don’t know, look at it as life experience. I’m assuming she continues to say she is straight?”

“Yeah,” Jon sighed, grateful that Matt’s words were calming him down. “But she said she can’t stop thinking about it.”

Matt grinned. “Now it’s getting interesting. If it’s like she’s discovered a whole new world but is still into men, then that’s easy. She’s most likely bi.”

Jon didn’t feel like he had discovered a whole new world of gay sex where the rivers were made of lube and trees were anal plugs. No thanks, he was quite happy the way he was. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He had called up Sapphire to make sure that he was still into women, and he was, though he had fucked Sapphire in the ass. She didn’t like it when he did, but he had paid extra. Her tits had turned him on, her curves and her moans, all of it, but once they were done, Jon only thought of how it hadn’t felt as satisfying as fucking Spencer had.

“Or it could be specified gayness,” Matt now mused thoughtfully.

“Specified gayness? What the hell is that?” Jon frowned.

“You’re gay for just one person. Against all logic and regardless of their gender, you just have to have them. You might grow out of it, though, you usually do. Specified gayness, that’s the shit,” Matt explained, and Jon scoffed. “I’ve seen it happen!” she insisted.

“Great. So I’ll tell her it’s specified gayness, which she might grow out of, or then, if she enjoyed it too much and wants to do it with loads of girls, she’s bi.”

“Bingo!” Matt smiled. Her eyes suddenly flashed, and she broke into a gigantic grin. “Ryan told me that you like to –”

“Yes, fine, _god_. I like tying people up, and Ross has told half of Manhattan. Yes, it’s true, so would everyone just get the fuck over it? Honestly,” he muttered bitterly. Matt giggled, her long nails tapping against her drink. Jon had noticed that it was best to immediately confirm the rumours, that way people were too surprised by the admission to ask questions. And, luckily, no one knew the extent of his fondness of having people tied down. Jon could deal with that, hell, maybe the reputation would attract the right kind of girls (yes, girls, no dudes, thanks). He could not, however, deal with his thoughts that kept playing Spencer Smith trembling in his arms on a loop.

Jon, being the gentleman, paid for lunch and even walked Matt to where she was going to have a lecture on fluvial landscapes.

If Matt knew Jon was talking about himself, she didn’t show it. Jon was relatively sure he had her fooled.

“Thanks for lunch!” she said.

“You’re welcome. Oh, um, and about my friend? I’d appreciate it if that stayed just between us. For her sake,” he explained. “And I’d especially appreciate it if you didn’t tell Ross because he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“I highly doubt it’s a good idea to say anything non-straight around Ryan,” Matt practically snorted. Jon lifted an eyebrow at her, and she sighed heavily and shook her head. “I won’t tell Ryan. He’s impossible these days, have you noticed? Constantly snappy and moody. I don’t know what’s up his ass, honestly.”

The only thing Jon had noticed was that Ryan had been doing drugs even more than usual.

“He’s just being himself,” Jon shrugged, and Matt nodded in agreement. “And, um… thanks.”

“Anytime,” Matt smiled, and Jon felt genuinely grateful.

Jon thought it through on the way home. He knew he didn’t suddenly lust after every guy with a six pack or a nice looking ass, he did not get off on the thought of giving blowjobs or rimming or, hell, whatever they did. He was, therefore, definitely not gay, and Matt had managed to make him see that.

He meant what he had said about labels. How did people define themselves? Nationality, age, gender, religion, sexual orientation. Well, he was Jon, twenty-three, Caucasian male, and so on and so on, and somewhere on the list was heterosexual. It threw him off balance to have a question mark flashing after it. And Spencer had hardly helped because Spencer hadn’t said anything about it apart from the fact that it had, apparently, been good and that Spencer had needed to take a shower. Jon was left to make his own conclusions about what it meant. What did it mean? That maybe he was suffering from specified gayness? He was suddenly aware of Spencer, in a way he had never been before, but he was hardly daydreaming about Spencer either. In fact, he was avoiding Spencer like the plague. That couldn’t be specified gayness, could it? Matt should have been more specific.

Jon needed to clear his head. He needed to clear his head and not be around Spencer.

Easier said than done.

Jon froze when he stepped out of the lift on his floor, taking a left and seeing Spencer Smith leaning against the wall next to his door. His first instinct was to run for it, run to the Pacific, maybe, and once he reached that to jump in and swim until he reached Japan. Spencer’s blue eyes piercing his skin seemed like a good reason to emigrate.

Jon forced himself to walk closer as he pulled out his keys, wondering what to say. Spencer saved him the trouble and stated, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t,” Jon muttered and focused on opening the door, knowing it was a lie, but what was he supposed to say to a guy he had fucked? He didn’t know any man-love etiquettes. God, this was weird…

“Yes, you have. I called you yesterday, no answer, and you weren’t at the party,” Spencer said as Jon unlocked the door. “You never called back either.”

“I’ve been busy. I am busy, I’ve been working on new songs, actually,” Jon informed him, tone indicating that Spencer should go.

“Ask me to come inside.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon laughed slightly.

“Go on.”

“No.”

“ _Jonathan._ ”

“Fine! Fuck, come on in,” Jon grumbled bitterly, pushing the door open and letting Spencer walk in first. In a way, he felt relieved because now they could talk about it. Yes, Jon wanted to talk about it, it was driving him insane. He thought of nothing else. Spencer casually headed for the kitchen, helping himself to a beer as Jon leaned against the doorway. Spencer turned around, smiled and used the counter to open the bottle before taking a long sip with a satisfied smile. Jon waited. And waited. Spencer just sipped the beer.

“What?” Spencer asked eventually.

“What ‘what’? I’m waiting for you to go first,” Jon snapped impatiently. Spencer looked puzzled, and Jon cursed heavily. “About… what happened.”

Spencer shrugged easily. “What about it?”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Yeah, what?” Spencer echoed, and Jon was getting really annoyed by the conversation. He felt slightly offended that Spencer didn’t seem to think it was a big deal, but at the same time, it was a good thing. It wasn’t a big deal, it didn’t mean _anything_. Most likely, Matt’s guesses had been wrong: Jon was not bi and Jon did not suffer from specified gayness. He had just done a completely irrational, uncharacteristic thing.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Spencer finally said.

Jon picked out a movie, and they settled on the living room couch to watch King Arthur. Jon had it because Keira Knightley was hot in it, just like she always was. It was good, it was normal. Two guys hanging out and watching a movie, and Jon began to relax because it was normal and what two semi-straight guys would do. The “semi” referring to Spencer, who was more versatile than Jon.

They would forget it ever even happened. Okay. Jon could do that.

Spencer began to rant about how historically inaccurate the movie was. “What? Dude, this is set in late fifth century! Romans left Britain in 410! This is ridiculous!” Spencer soon added, “What the hell? A prestigious Roman family living north of Hadrian’s Wall? The whole fucking point is that the Roman Empire never conquered the other side of the wall, how could Romans live there? Jesus!”

Jon honestly didn’t care, but asked, “How the hell do you even know any of that?”

“Contrary to what the celeb mags say, Jon, I actually do more than party and spend money. Late Antiquity has always interested me, but this movie is a fucking joke,” Spencer complained, grabbing the remote and pausing it. “I don’t want to watch this. I refuse to watch it.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Fine. You wanna watch something else?”

“No,” Spencer said and leaned against the couch, rolling his head to the side and staring at Jon through his brown bangs. “I was thinking we should fuck again. Except this time with proper equipment.”

“Huh,” Jon managed to say, his brain slowing down steadily and eyes focusing on Spencer’s exposed neck.

“Tie my ankles too this time, proper handcuffs and so on,” Spencer explained so fucking casually that Jon wanted to kill him. Spencer tilted his head in question, and Spencer was relaxed and indifferent and casual about it. How could Spencer do that? How could Spencer show no emotion when it came to having perverted sex with someone who, in theory, was supposed to be one of his best friends? Jon didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand it at all.

“Yeah, uh,” Jon began, trying to _think_. His palms were sweaty, and he rubbed them against his jeans, not looking at Spencer. “I don’t think we… I don’t think we should, really, um…”

Spencer sighed and stood up, turning off the TV. “I told you once already, didn’t I? Stop freaking out. It’s just sex,” he reasoned and cocked his hips. Jon stared slightly. “Good sex.”

Jon stood up, hating the fact that he felt _flattered_. Spencer had slept around, even if Brendon and Ryan’s whoring overshadowed it. Still, Jon had fucked a guy just once, and Spencer seemed to have labelled it as good enough to take another go at it. Jon found himself wondering how he had compared to other guys Spencer had fucked.

“Look, uh, it’s just that… I don’t swing that way, you know?” Jon explained. He was not gay.

Spencer ignored him. Spencer pulled off his shirt, tossed it on the couch and said, “Fuck me.”

Maybe it was specified gayness. Maybe that’s what it was, and somewhere the gods were laughing out loud, tears rolling down their chubby cheeks as they peered over the cloud and witnessed Jon’s feeble struggles.

Jon let Spencer choose which handcuffs they’d use.

* * *

Brendon noticed the bruises. Of course he noticed them, how could he not? At first, he thought that they were related to that fall Spencer said he had taken, but a week later, there were new bruises. Brendon was horrified at first, thinking it was somehow connected to Skinny, but then realised that neither Skinny nor his goons would not have left hand-like bruises on Spencer’s hips.

Another man had left them. An enthusiastic woman might have done the same, but women’s hands were small. The bruises were not small. Somehow, it felt worse knowing it was another man.

Brendon knew very little of Spencer’s sexlife. Spencer only said that it was weird sharing those details with his _brother_ , to which Brendon had given Spencer his ‘hypocrite bastard’ look. Brendon didn’t know who Spencer had lost his virginity to, but he remembered the epiphany he had had one day, years ago now, when weeks of wrinkled clothing and dishevelled appearances caught up with him and exploded in a jealous storm. But that had been long ago, and Brendon didn’t get upset over it anymore. He didn’t get upset, no, but he still didn’t like it.

David and Grace’s bedroom was at the other end of the condo, ensuring that the children and the adults didn’t have to suffer each other too much. Lucía lived with them; she had her own, modest quarters in the far off corner out of everyone’s way. She got two weeks off every year, usually one during the holiday season and the second during summer, and during them, she always flew down to visit all of her family in Cusco. Brendon’s oldest surviving toy was a scruffy, worn out llama soft toy that Lucía had brought back the time Brendon had thrown himself at her feet, begging her not to go. Lucía liked telling that story, but Brendon had been too young to remember it. All he could remember from his childhood was a sense of dread of being left alone with Grace.

Out of their two chauffeurs, Tom and Sid, Sid had been with them for five or so years and Tom for three months. They worked rotating shifts and had their own room in the condo where they were when on duty. They didn’t live with them, though on weekends they worked night shifts. Brendon and Spencer needed to be driven to parties, Grace to bars and gallery openings and wherever. David drove himself, and being the workaholic that he was, it was mostly the distance between their condo and the practice, though sometimes it was a trip to the Hamptons for a round of golf.

It wasn’t highly unusual, then, for Brendon to be spending his afternoon (which he called morning) in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate Lucía had prepared for him. Tom had a cup too, a bit of whipped cream on his nose as he practically moaned. “This hot chocolate is _gorgeous_!”

Lucía beamed, and Brendon knew she had taken an instant liking to Tom, just like he had. Brendon trusted Lucía’s judgement a lot, and Tom and he had plenty in common. For instance, they both thought that Nirvana was overrated, admitted to having read the Sexy Losers comic strip while it had been active, and they agreed that ninjas totally kicked pirate ass. He knew the maid strongly disliked Ryan, but he figured they’d just have to disagree on that one.

“Es muy rico. Gracías,” Brendon smiled.

“De nada, cariño,” Lucía said and kept on cutting the onions in preparation of a grand dinner as David’s Belgian colleague was coming over for dinner, some guy who was reinventing face lifts or something or other as interesting. Brendon and Spencer were expected to make an appearance, shake hands, and then let the adults entertain themselves. They were twenty-one and still expected to eat in the kitchen by themselves, hidden from the guests. It was ironic, seeing as the guests usually were the most interested in the infamous Smith-Urie sons, but David wanted them out of sight. Brendon preferred it that way: he didn’t have to fake interest or engage in dreary small talk when he could be hanging out with his friends in a club somewhere.

“A bit of a random question,” he addressed Tom, who was gulping down his hot chocolate with a satisfied grin. “Have you driven Spencer anywhere… odd recently?”

“Hmm?” Tom asked, wiping his nose. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Any one place again and again?”

“No. Ryan’s place, Jon’s place, clubs, shops, cafés, gym. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Tom said, and Brendon took a sip from his mug with a nod. “If you’re looking for something weird, well, yesterday we went to this underground parking hall, said he’d be a minute, and…” Tom lowered his voice, made sure Lucía wasn’t listening, and added, “He met up with some guy, saw some sort of an exchange take place. Chemicals.”

“Huh,” Brendon nodded, but knew that Spencer didn’t do drugs. What had that been about?

“Oh! My grandma spotted me in this one celeb magazine holding a door for you and Mrs. Urie!” Tom suddenly grinned. “She was totally excited! Said she’s gonna start keeping a scrapbook!”

Brendon laughed alongside the blond man, and they finished their hot chocolates as Lucía began frying the onions. People would be surprised if they knew just how normal his life could be.

“Let’s go,” Brendon said eventually, and Tom straightened his suit, putting on the ridiculous hat they made him wear when he was on duty. They waved Lucía goodbye, and Tom was quick to start opening doors and calling him “Mr. Urie” again. Brendon had told him it wasn’t necessary, but Tom said he didn’t want to get fired.

Brendon was pretty excited. He was going to see a movie with his gang at a private screening Brendon had managed to get invitations to. He had promised to pick Ryan up; Jon and Spencer had said they’d meet them at the movie theatre. Tom drove through Central Park to the Upper West Side, coming to a stop outside a brownstone building Brendon was no stranger to.

Ryan was nowhere to be seen so Brendon called him up, getting a grunt when he said they were outside. When Ryan slid into the backseat, Brendon realised Ryan was fucked out of his mind for a change. Brendon stared at Ryan’s dilated pupils as Ryan brushed hair behind his ears, grinning broadly.

“Hi. Hi, come here,” Ryan grinned, moving closer and instantly placing a sloppy, wet kiss on Brendon’s lips, fingers snaking in his hair.

“Happy to see me?” Brendon questioned.

“Absolutely,” Ryan practically purred, laughing loudly and looking around the backseat excitedly, obviously very buzzed. How was Ryan going to sit through a movie like this?

Brendon could see Tom smirking through the review mirror. Ryan managed to sit still in his seat but kept drumming his fingers against his thighs, eyes darting from this to that as a grin adorned his face.

“It’s a weekday,” Brendon noted slightly disdainfully.

Ryan laughed and tilted his head. “That was a stupid rule. Coke is good any fucking day of the year.”

Brendon resorted to rolling his eyes, knowing Ryan did things his way and never anyone else’s. Tom obediently held the door open for them when they got to the theatre, saying that he would be there to pick them up when the movie finished.

“What are we gonna go see?” Ryan asked, eyeing at the cinema which was supposedly closed.

“The new Harry Potter movie,” Brendon grinned. He wasn’t much of a reader. No, Spencer was the bookworm out of the two, but he had loved those books and, subsequently, the movies. It wasn’t like he was walking around in a Hufflepuff hoodie, was it? Ryan snorted as they walked to the doors where Jon already stood waiting, and Brendon reminded himself yet again to just put up with his friend’s obnoxious behaviour.

“I thought that the movie wasn’t coming out ‘til summer,” Jon said, giving Ryan a nod as Brendon gave Jon a hug as a greeting.

“It’s not, but some of us have connections,” Brendon said smugly.

“All here, I see.”

Brendon turned around to see Spencer eye the three of them, and he instantly smiled. Spencer hadn’t been around much lately, so he took the opportunity to exclaim, “Aw, there’s my baby brother!”

Spencer grimaced as Brendon slid an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek with a loud smack. “Get off me,” Spencer objected, pushing him away. “How you guys doing?”

“Better now,” Brendon said, trying to detect any just-been-fucked signs on Spencer.

“Off my fucking head!” Ryan laughed. “Shit, you guys, the stuff I’ve got? So fucking _good_.”

“I bet it is,” Jon noted sarcastically.

Brendon called up the guy who had organised the screening, and soon enough, the man appeared at the door and let them in the building. The cinema was under construction in a few places, but the main screen wasn’t. They took comfortable seats, and the room fit five hundred or so, but there were only a handful of people there. Brendon recognised some of them, seeing as it went without saying that they were other spoiled New York brats with rich parents and connections (“Dude, I’m the oldest person here,” Jon remarked, and Spencer said, “Mentally Brendon is the youngest,” and Brendon flipped them off).

“I’ll sit next to you,” Ryan offered quickly, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand and claiming a seat between Brendon and Spencer. “I like the shirt. Looks good on you.”

Brendon looked down at what he was wearing as the lights went off. “It’s actually Spencer’s. Or was, one of his old ones.”

Ryan’s expression darkened. “What fucking ever.”

Brendon’s lifted his eyebrow at the attitude but decided to drop it. Ryan wasn’t being himself. Who knew what the hell Ryan meant? Instead, he got ready to watch the British kids jump around in Scottish highlands in silly robes as Voldemort breathed down their necks.

Brendon pulled out a bag of gelatine free sweets, offering Spencer some. Spencer scrunched up his nose and whispered, “You do know that those have absolutely no nutritional value, right? Just sugar.”

“Take one,” he persisted.

Spencer shifted in his seat uncomfortably and shook his head. Brendon wondered when the last time Spencer had eaten candy was. He had a feeling it was a question of years. Some ignorant people thought that vegetarians mostly ate salads. As far as Spencer was concerned, they weren’t far off.

Brendon reached over Ryan to offer Jon some, and Jon stuffed a few in his mouth happily. Ryan didn’t want any either, so Brendon focused on the movie again.

A few more minutes in, Ryan’s warm breathing hit his ear. “Let’s go fuck in the toilets.”

Brendon sighed. “Dude, watch the movie, okay?”

Ryan moved restlessly, but a minute later was back. “Maybe afterwards. You want to afterwards?”

“Spence and I gotta go home and make an appearance for a Belgian plastic surgeon, so no, afraid I can’t,” Brendon said bluntly, getting annoyed.

“The colours are so fucking vivid, dude,” Ryan muttered, and when the first slightly scary scene came and spells were flying across the screen, Ryan jumped up and shouted, “Holy shit, did you see that?!”

Jon was quick to pull him back down. “Ross, calm the fuck down,” he hissed.

Ryan burst out laughing, and Jon and Brendon’s eyes met. Jon looked annoyed, and Brendon was beginning to worry. They had the materials for a scandal in their hands. What would their other friends say if one of their own started causing scenes in public?

“I gotta,” Ryan said, not keeping his voice down at all, and got up, blocking their view as he made for the end of the row.

“Well, he’s buzzed,” Spencer commented nonchalantly.

It took Ryan half an hour to come back, and when he did, it was obvious he had indulged in more cocaine and, by the smell of it, a few cigarettes. Brendon huffed in further annoyance.

“Shit,” Ryan sighed contently and slid back to his seat between Jon and Brendon. He kept fidgeting and interrupting, the coke receiving a hyperactive response from Ryan who, normally, was calm and quiet.

At one point, someone sitting lower down turned to them and shouted, “Would you shut up? Yeah, you!” and pointed at Ryan.

“Fuck you,” Spencer called back instantly, even if they all felt the same way about Ryan’s behaviour. “You don’t tell one of us to shut up,” Spencer muttered, and they all knew it was true.

Brendon didn’t know how they managed to last through the entire movie. Ryan’s attention span was far too short, and Ryan kept bothering him in particular. Sometimes, Ryan amused him greatly when he was acting like this, but now, Brendon didn’t enjoy the attention.

“Seriously. Stop it,” he eventually hissed, and Ryan let go of the sleeve of Brendon’s (Spencer’s old) shirt with a sigh.

“You’re no fun,” Ryan muttered back.

When the movie finally finished, Brendon only had a vague notion of the tragic moment Dumbledore was killed. The privileged few got up and shot angry glances at them, and Brendon felt like snapping that they could go see the movie again when it actually came out. They made their way out, and Brendon stopped to chat with the guy who had set up the secret screening (friend of a friend who knew someone working for Warner Bros).

“I also have access to a Britney Spears home video if you’re interested,” the guy grinned, and Brendon laughed before politely declining. He’d rather not be traumatised.

When he walked out, he instantly spotted their black limousine parked a few cars away. More importantly, though, Ryan and Spencer appeared to be arguing, a rare sight.

“Ryan, get a grip!” Spencer snapped, and Brendon hurried over to his friends, not liking the raised voices at all. He took a look around to make sure no one of importance could see them bickering amongst themselves. The enemies would be knocking on their doors if word of internal conflict started spreading.

“Spence, just let it go,” Jon said indignantly, arms crossed and apparently having decided to be above the disagreement.

“What’s the big deal?” Ryan asked, hips cocked and a cigarette between his lips. Ryan had put sunglasses on, the big frames hiding his dilated pupils.

“Look. If I, your friend, can’t tell you you’re behaving like an ass, who can?” Spencer pointed out. “I’ve got your back, Ryan, but seriously. People talk.”

“Let them,” Ryan said, lips twisting up into a grin.

Brendon decided to voice his opinion. “Spencer’s right, Ry.”

He could see the muscles of Ryan’s face twitch, and the older man turned to him. “Of course you side with Spencer. Of _course_ , Brendon!”

Behind Ryan, Jon was shaking his head, indicating that Ryan’s head was too far up his own ass to even know what he was saying. Well, that and the drugs.

“You know, fuck you guys,” Ryan decided, dropping his cigarette and stomping on it. “I’ll call up some of my other friends, some with a bit of a sense of humour. Fuck, I’ll call up Conor, he’ll want to try some of the coke I’ve been getting,” he kept on muttering.

“You do that,” Spencer said. Brendon knew that look in Spencer’s eyes, the look of fucking doom, and he knew that it’d take a lot for Ryan to appease Spencer after this. He didn’t like it when there was friction in their gang, and his insides tightened painfully.

“I’m out of here,” Ryan declared.

“Have fun with your drug addict rockstar friends!” Spencer called after him, eyes thinning. Ryan didn’t react, and Brendon noticed that this was a pattern in its early stages. A ridiculous misunderstanding, and Ryan walking away with head held high, just like that night in Central Park. Brendon didn’t like it, but Jon and Spencer just looked at each other, Jon rolling his eyes like the two had a mutual understanding on it all.

“That wasn’t very mature,” Brendon noted.

“Neither is being shitfaced all the time,” Spencer said simply, and Brendon knew it was true, knew that he had been just as frustrated with Ryan, but he didn’t want this either. “Need a drive home, Jon?” Spencer asked.

Jon’s eyes lingered on Spencer before he smiled charmingly. “Sure. Thanks.”

Spencer headed for the limousine, and Brendon sulked behind his two friends. He took one last look to make sure no one had seen them fighting. Tom got out and held the door open for them, eyes widening in question when Brendon kept biting on his bottom lip unhappily.

“Cheer up, star eyes. I’m sure the movie wasn’t that bad,” Tom winked quietly, the words unheard by Jon and Spencer already in the car.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon smirked, sliding into the backseat next to Spencer. He sighed heavily as the door slammed shut, catching his stepbrother’s attention. “I don’t like it when we fight,” he shrugged.

Spencer’s hardened eyes softened around the edges. “I know.”

It was different from when he and Spencer fought. When it came to that, Brendon always knew they’d be okay.

They gave Tom orders to drive to West Village, and Brendon couldn’t stop worrying about Ryan wandering off to Lower East Side to do drugs with that whiskey-breathing crowd.

“Should we be worried about the drugs?” Brendon asked, noticing the unsure, concerned silence that fell upon them. Ryan was starting to look and act like a mess. Spencer shrugged and examined his nails.

“It’s a bit unfair,” Jon said, changing the subject. Ignorance was bliss. “I’m the musician. _I_ should be the one with famous, godforsaken rockstar friends.”

“Conceited assholes like other conceited assholes,” Spencer reasoned.

Brendon frowned. “Hey, Ryan’s not an asshole.”

“Of course not. He’s one of us, after all.”

The three of them fell into silence, and it felt wrong with just them there. A puzzle piece was missing, and Brendon dug his nails into his palms, upset by the mess. Maybe he should call Ryan later, make sure Ryan was okay. Make sure that this, whatever this was, was only temporary.

It didn’t mean they were falling apart. It couldn’t mean that.

They got stuck in traffic, and Brendon let his head rest on Spencer’s shoulder. Jon and Spencer kept talking about special effects.  



	8. Familial Love

**Familial Love**

_Party boy Brendon Urie smooches the cheek of a less enthusiastic stepbrother Spencer Smith as the dynamic duo meet up with musician Jon Walker and friend in New York City's SoHo district on Tuesday._

Ryan looked good in the picture. He was partly behind Brendon but recognisable. Brendon was grinning against Spencer’s cheek, and Spencer had a classic “ew” look on his face. It was a pretty funny picture, in all fairness, and it took the left bottom corner of a weekly celebrity snapshot collage in the magazine Ryan had bought just to see himself in it. Ryan was anonymous; he was “friend”. Hell, even Jon had been identified, but not him. He was used to it, having seen plenty of these pictures before. _Brendon Urie went shopping with a friend_ , and there Ryan was, sunglasses on and walking next to Brendon, or _Spencer Smith had a wild night out with his friends_ , and he was coming out of the club in Spencer’s trail.

Ryan threw the magazine on the floor and cuddled back against the couch. The living room still smelled like beer and sweat from the party he had spontaneously thrown the night before. He hadn’t bothered cleaning up, resorting to pushing cans out of his way if he needed to clear a pathway. He was in no condition to clean either - hangover and withdrawal was a shitty combination - and he groaned, nuzzling even further into the couch.

His phone kept ringing somewhere in the bedroom, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He had woken up only an hour or so ago, and twilight was setting outside. What weekday was it? He wasn’t entirely sure.

Usually, his place was impeccably clean and organised, thanks to the cleaner who came around twice a week but also because Ryan loved order. He wanted his shoes in the order of purchase, whereas his shirts were arranged according to colour and make. The same sense of harmony and order extended to the small decorative items on the coffee and side tables, the cushions on the white couch, the matching frames for paintings and carefully selected pictures, usually black and white and found in antiquarian shops all over the world. When the place was as Ryan had designed it, it could have been straight out of _House & Garden_. Ryan eyed the destruction made by himself and so-called friends, and for some reason, he didn’t care.

Brendon had been there, at one point, but had gone home early.

The muscles of Ryan’s left thigh cramped suddenly and painfully, and he closed his eyes again, groaning as he waited for it to pass. When it did, he was out of breath.

Withdrawal. The cruellest joke of them all.

He forced himself to stand up and think back to where his coke was. Bedroom, definitely. He stepped over a pizza box someone had left behind, feeling tired and drained. His fingers were trembling slightly, and he was nauseous as he stumbled into the bedroom, switching the lights on. He pulled the curtains aside, shielding his eyes from the light of the street lamp outside, and turned to find his cocaine.

All he could find was an empty foil wrapper on the bedside table with cocaine traces just, and _just_ , visible on the wooden surface next to it. Anguish filled him as he frantically began to look for more. He had more; he had to have some more somewhere. Fucking parties, fucking friends, and his fucking need to prove to everyone that he was getting the best coke in town. Now… he had none.

Next, he began to look for his phone. He had heard it ringing earlier; it had to be somewhere.

“Jesus fuck, fucking god. Shit,” he muttered frantically, throwing dirty clothes into corners of the room before a pair of jeans made a thump against the wall. He rushed over, falling on his knees and hair scattering in front of his eyes as his grabby hands located his Sidekick. “Yes!” he breathed out as relief washed over him, briefly noting the twenty-seven missed calls.

Two of them were from his dad, six of them from his mother, one from his shrink, and seeing as his parents let him live rather freely, he instantly knew that this sudden wave of calls were due to him having missed an appointment with the therapist. God, he’d never hear the end of it now. The rest were from friends, acquaintances, fucks (when he still used to sleep around), and two from Brendon, and that made him smile.

None from Spencer, none from Jon. Brendon was the only one of the gang being decent to him right now.

Ryan ignored all the missed calls, and his heart kept hitting his ribcage as if intending to burst out, as he waited for Peach to pick up.

“Ryan,” came the dealer’s voice, and right then, Ryan was sure Peach sounded angelic. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve run out, man. I need more. Now.”

“You’ve run out?” Peach sounded disbelieving.

“I had a party. A few parties, I, um,” Ryan said and forgot the rest of the sentence. “I _need_ more.”

“Not a problem. The Star Bar of the Ritz-Carlton, one hour.”

Ryan felt like marrying the man. He forced himself to shower though all of his thoughts were flying circles around the single thought of another hit. He even took the time to pick out shiny, black shoes and match his shirt with the vest – he couldn’t walk into the Ritz in just anything.

Ryan got to the hotel early, and his hands kept shaking. He kept telling himself it wouldn’t be long now, not long at all. Peach wasn’t there yet, so he sat down and got himself a drink. By now, he had met up with Peach in a handful of five star hotels, and he liked it that Peach had class.

Peach was five minutes late, and it had Ryan tapping against the bar table nervously, poking the lone green olive in the empty martini glass. Peach slipped into the seat next to him, beckoned the bartender over and said, “Two more martinis, please.”

“You’re late.”

Peach turned to him with a quirked eyebrow, this time with a black flat cap on his head. “You’re eager.”

Ryan took a long sip of the new martini and shrugged, eyes landing on Peach’s left hand where a white gold ring was. It hadn’t been there before. “Have you gotten married?” he asked spontaneously, shocked by the thought of his drug dealer having an actual life somewhere out there.

“Engaged,” Peach said, suddenly smiling in a completely unprofessional way as he eyed the ring with nearly radiating happiness.

“Congratulations. She’s a lucky girl,” Ryan returned, barely hiding the sarcasm. Peach was a drug dealer, after all. How lucky could the chick be?

Peach took a sip of the martini and shook his head. “Not a girl. My boyfriend proposed to me.”

Ryan swallowed the martini in his mouth, almost choking on it. “You’re… You’re gay?”

His tone was utterly shocked, and Peach must have noticed it because the smile vanished. “Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Ryan was quick to say. “Whatever, not my business what your kind do. But you can’t get married, can you? Neither does the state of New York allow civil union,” he noted, not seeing the point in getting engaged.

Peach’s expression darkened further. “My _kind_ just has to live with what we’re given, and in this state, it’s not much. With time, same-sex marriage could be legalised over here… If not, well. It’s a life-long engagement.”

Ryan frowned. It was all fabrication and unfounded optimism – Ryan hadn’t forgotten about California and Proposition 8.

Peach looked away as Ryan still observed the ring, taken aback by this information. Peach did not send out any gay vibes. None. Some people were so obviously gay, and that made Ryan worry that maybe the most observant individuals could smell it on him, that he… Ryan swallowed hard. There was something sad about Peach and his fiancé hoping that one day their rings could have more than symbolic value. Ryan _pitied_ his dealer, and he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone pitying him.

Don’t be in the minority.

Being homosexual was punishable by death in some countries - Sudan and Saudi-Arabia for instance - even if this punishment was rare to be carried out. In India, being homosexual got you life in prison. It wasn’t pretty, it was just how it was, and Ryan knew better than to patronise countries and cultures built on their own traditional, historical and religious values. It was no one’s fault that some people thought that if you loved another man, you didn’t deserve to live.

“So, how much?” Peach asked, obviously directing the conversation elsewhere. He pushed his glasses up his nose and avoided eye contact.

“The usual,” Ryan returned, and Peach nodded.

“No problem.”

They stood up and headed for the men’s room, seeing as the bar area was crowded and the room had a security camera in every corner. A man walked out just as they entered the men’s room, and Ryan realised that Peach already knew where the security cameras were located as he headed straight for the corner that was out of sight.

“So,” Peach said casually, leaning against the wall and digging into his pockets. Ryan was more than ready, and he got out five hundred dollars to pay for his two eight-balls of cocaine. It was better to buy in larger quantities, that way he didn’t need to be calling Peach all the time. The goods exchanged owners, and Ryan pocketed the drugs quickly. It was as if a rock had been lifted off of him.

“I don’t mind you spoiling your friends or giving freebies. It’s yours, you do what you want with it,” Peach said slowly as he slid the money into his back pocket. “But I don’t want you attracting attention.”

“I won’t.”

Peach looked doubtful, and it pissed Ryan off. He was an ideal client in his own opinion, and yet, Peach made it clear that he wasn’t very happy. “Pleasure as always,” Peach said sardonically, and Ryan felt his jaw clench as Peach headed for the door.

“Good luck with the engagement!” he called out before he could stop himself.

Peach turned around, eyes thinning and a storm blazing in his eyes before it disappeared under a curtain of casualness. “You look like shit,” the man observed coldly. “Take it easy for a while.”

“Isn’t that a bit ironic coming from you?” Ryan questioned, eyes darting to the mirror to realise that his nice clothes couldn’t hide the worn out look of his face, drained of colour and completely lifeless. He had lost weight. He forced himself to look away. “Should you not be encouraging me to do more and more for profits?”

Peach smirked coldly. “There’ll be no profits if you end up dead.”

Ryan flinched involuntarily, and Peach walked out without another glance towards him. Ryan looked back into the mirror to determine if he really looked that bad, and as his hands shook in the effects of cocaine withdrawal, his heart beating too fast and his entire body begging for more of the drug, he had to admit that his current condition was nothing to brag about.

He occupied a stall and flipped down the lid before getting on his knees. He soon sniffed two lines from the plastic surface. After that, he didn’t feel quite so shitty anymore.

Five hours and two more lines later, he was in a club. It was someone’s birthday. There had been paparazzi outside, and he had been on the guest list. He spotted his gang and marched over, fully knowing that he hadn’t talked to Spencer since their argument a few days ago. Ryan was the type that he soon forgave whatever the argument had been about but not the argument itself.

“I have arrived!” he announced victoriously.

Spencer, sober and clear-headed, looked at him questioningly, and Ryan could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. Jon and Brendon were drunk, and the full body hug Brendon gave him made him feel better as his head buzzed blissfully.

Brendon smiled at him, and Ryan was invincible again.

It was the birthday of the daughter of that guy who had been in the original Star Wars trilogy. This was as accurate as the information got, apart from the fact that she had herself acted in a handful of teenie chick flicks, had a publicly adored habit of dating bad boys, and that George Lucas was her godfather. Ryan didn’t care. It was a collection of young and beautiful people, and he doubted that half of them even knew the girl. Ryan recognised plenty of celebrities and people from mutual scenes. Places like that were where he longed to be.

They took to the floor, he, Brendon and Jon, and Jon spilled some beer on Brendon. “Fucker!” Brendon laughed. Ryan loved seeing him laugh.

Ryan wanted to dance with Brendon. He wanted to put his hands on those narrow hips and pull Brendon to him, feel Brendon’s hot breathing against his neck. He wanted to kiss Brendon in the middle of the dance floor but knew that he’d be pushed away, that Brendon would hiss at him about them being in plain sight. He wanted to tell Brendon about the aching burn inside his chest, wanted to say that every time Brendon looked at him another part of his heart turned into ashes.

Majority of the US states banned same-sex marriage as well as civil unions.

The flashing lights felt like drops of rain hitting his skin, turning into sweat as they danced. He could feel his body burning up, and whenever he blinked, he saw Brendon’s face beneath his eyelids, that smile, those shining eyes.

“Just saw Nate! Gonna go say hi!” Brendon announced before he not-so-smoothly danced his way to the other side of the room. Jon had already found a ho to dance with, the girl giggling against his neck. Jon winked at Ryan over her shoulder. Ryan needed a drink.

Ryan kept his eyes on Brendon who was talking to Nate, and he knew Nate was straight. He kept it in mind when Brendon leaned in to whisper something into Nate’s ear. Nate laughed, and Ryan nervously kept tapping the bar.

“Ryan!”

He swirled around and saw a beautiful man beaming at him. “Hi!” he said and smiled spontaneously to match the grin on the guy’s face.

“William! I work at the gym!”

Ryan paused, closed his eyes and thought of that small mole on Brendon’s left inner thigh, the way he liked to kiss around it if foreplay was involved, though it rarely was, and then he remembered William and how he had nice hair and had patched up Spencer’s elbow. “Yeah, I remember you!” he declared. “How’d you end up here?”

“My best friend, Gabe!” William explained and pointed across the room to the DJ stand. A man with black hair was jamming with a headphone pressed to one ear, bouncing to the beat of the song. “His DJing is really taking off, man, and it’s all to my advantage!” William grinned.

“Sweet,” Ryan agreed and realised he had nothing to say to the receptionist (Brendon’s pale, smooth thighs spread wide, and Nate was straight, right? Right?). Ryan relied on a casual, “What’s up?”

William laughed brightly. “Well, I just saw Ashton Kutcher! I went over to say hi, and he was super nice! Like, oh my god, totally ridiculous! Ashton Kutcher, man! I feel like a fucking celeb myself!”

Ryan laughed because, yes, Nate was straight _and_ had a girlfriend, and all was well in the world again. William seemed slightly embarrassed as he said, “It’s probably not exciting to you when you’re one of them, but to me, it’s surreal to be meeting all these famous people.”

Finally, William had Ryan’s full attention.

The lights hit William’s hair, illuminating it and giving him a halo, and Ryan grabbed William’s hand and pulled him after him. William, unlike his own boring friends, didn’t frown at the cocaine. Not at all, William’s eyes widened and he rushed a, “Wow, really, can I? Thanks! Shit, that’s so nice of you!” before he leaned down to snort a line from the counter in the men’s room. Ryan himself had had plenty for one day, really, but it had been a few hours now. He needed more and more to get the desired effect, and it was social, after all, so he snorted a line.

“I prefer you to my real friends,” Ryan told William, and they were both buzzed. Ryan couldn’t quite figure out his surroundings anymore. He kept thinking about Brendon, and he and William tried to find Brendon to no avail. William introduced him to Gabe, and Gabe said that it was raining in Chicago, and Ryan said that in Afghanistan homosexuality was punishable by death.

He and William danced, and he saw Spencer and asked him where Brendon was. “You’re fucking out of it, Ryan,” Spencer shouted over the music.

“So? The world is more beautiful this way!” he laughed, feeling as light as a feather. He wanted to feel that fucking good forever. Spencer’s eyes lingered on him. “You and Brendon looked good in the magazine! Familial love, eh?”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “The shit they come up with, honestly.”

“Hi, Spencer!” William said, and Spencer politely exchanged “how’s it going, man?”s with the receptionist.

“I’m off with Ellen if anyone asks,” Spencer yelled, giving Ryan’s shoulder a squeeze. Spencer had just apologised for snapping at him, and Ryan patted Spencer’s shoulder in return.

William said he liked Ryan’s vest, and Ryan said that he could take William shopping some time. William looked like he needed the help. William agreed, and Brendon was nowhere in sight, though Jon was feeling up a girl not too far away. Ryan jumped up and down with William as the song got to the rocky part, and Jon asked him where Spencer was, and he said with Ellen, left with Ellen, you know Ellen, don’t you?

“Yeah. Haven’t she and Spence…?” Jon asked, and Ryan affirmed that yes, the two hooked up every now and then. Ellen was a hot girl; even Ryan could see that. Her dad was some famous director or another. Kids their age weren’t famous for themselves yet; well, Brendon and Spencer were just and just on the line.

“Left with Ellen,” Ryan repeated, and Jon said, “I need whisky.”

William hugged him and said Ryan was the most amazing person he had ever met, and fuck, he felt so fucking good, oh god, this shit was amazing, incredible, Jesus fuck, where had he gotten it from?

“I get it off this gay guy with stupid glasses,” he explained, and he made sure his tone was belittling when he said gay.

“Did you know that Norway became the fourth country in Europe to legalise gay marriage at the turn of the year?” William asked over the music.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Ryan said, and he saw Brendon again, and Brendon was there, hadn’t left to fuck someone. Ryan felt even more majestic right then, and Brendon came over, playfully spinning Ryan in his arms once (friendly, not seductively or suggestively, but in a way, that suggested manly banter), and Ryan laughed into Brendon’s neck, loved the way he smelled.

Brendon’s eyes were a bit like William’s; Brendon’s were darker, and William’s were dilated.

“Smart people, Norwegians!” Ryan told Brendon who frowned before patting Ryan’s cheek. He should tell Peach to move to Europe and escape the more conservative parts of the world. The world was changing, but Ryan was still the same, always the same.

Brendon shouted, “You’re fucked, Ry!”

“Maybe,” he agreed. Brendon slipped away from him, and Ryan didn’t have the right to take hold of the younger man. “Maybe,” he repeated. Brendon was gone again.

How much of the drugs did Ryan have to take to sink into sweet oblivion? He didn’t know, but the answer was _more_.

* * *

Spencer flipped through the portfolio, seeing pictures of him and Brendon from a recent photo shoot to accompany their interview for Cosmo Girl! for the magazine’s Valentine’s Day special. Spencer was already dreading the thought of reading the pile of garbage.

“They’ll probably choose this one,” he muttered as he came across a particularly good shot of the two of them. They were going to be on the cover of the special edition, making history as the first guys to officially land on the cover of the magazine. Spencer was sure they’d use the picture he was looking at; he had an eye for that sort of thing. He was still in bed despite it being almost noon, pillows piled up against the headboard as he went through the pictures. He had showered to get the smell of alcohol and weed off of himself and had simply slid back under the covers afterwards.

After the week he had had, interviews, parties, photo shoots, fights, sex, he was not going to move. At all.

The door opened without anyone having knocked on it, and a sleepy Brendon padded in, wearing nothing but a pair of bright yellow boxer briefs. Spencer’s eyes locked on his scantily clad stepbrother who waved his hand, and before Spencer could ask what exactly Brendon was doing, Brendon lifted a toothbrush and said an explanatory, “Out of toothpaste.”

“By all means,” Spencer muttered sourly as Brendon went to his bathroom, leaving the door wide open. What was Spencer’s was also Brendon’s – apparently. Spencer chose to ignore the existence of a mostly naked Brendon and went back to looking at their pictures. He heard the buzzing of Brendon’s electric toothbrush, followed by gurgling and spitting sounds, and he found his eyes darting through the open doorway to just and just see Brendon’s back, eyes landing on Brendon’s ass. Spencer took in a breath and shifted under the covers of his bed, feeling uncomfortable as his skin tingled.

Brendon came back out, wiping foam from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he smiled before smoothly lifting the corner of the sheets and casually sliding in Spencer’s bed.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Spencer protested, jumping from the centre to the other side.

Brendon laughed. “What? Are you naked?”

“No, but come on,” Spencer attempted to explain. He was wearing boxers, and he sometimes let Brendon sleep in his bed, but they needed an excuse: nightmares or insomnia might suffice. This time, there was no excuse to be had, only a dark look in Brendon’s eyes.

Did Brendon realise it would be a good idea to leave Spencer to his idle afternoon of lying in bed? No, of course not. Brendon remained on the other side of the bed, taking a pillow and placing it under his head. Spencer felt his skin heat up as Brendon’s eyes roamed on his torso.

“I- I was looking at these. They’re good,” Spencer explained uncomfortably, handing Brendon one of the pictures. Brendon inched closer on the bed, and Spencer noticed.

“We look good together,” Brendon said quietly as he looked at the photo. He looked up, and his eyes lingered on Spencer’s face.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed and cleared his throat. “I think I want breakfast.”

He made to leave the bed, but Brendon was quicker. “Hey, wait,” Brendon called out, long fingers pressing into Spencer’s shoulder and pulling him back. Spencer let himself lie back down, closing his eyes and feeling his heart beating fast as Brendon inched even closer to him and prompted himself up on one elbow. “I wanted to ask about Skinny. Is that, you know, under control?”

“Yeah,” Spencer nodded, already feeling Brendon’s warm body inches from his own.

The Skinny issue was not under control at all. Spencer hadn’t paid even half of the money yet and had no idea where to get some without Grace and David realising that something was up. He had met up with Skinny twice, once with one of his goons in an underground parking hall, once in his favourite café again, and the thugs did not respect Spencer one fucking bit. Each time, they repeated the same mantra of going to the press about their supposed gambling problems, making threats about beating the shit out of him if he didn’t pay up faster, and Spencer had to keep saying that he’d pay up, they just had to have patience, and he was going to go to the cops if they didn’t keep their part of the bargain.

Spencer was fucked, but he wasn’t going to tell Brendon that.

“I don’t have to worry about it anymore?”

Brendon sounded scared, and Spencer could not _not_ look at him. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it,” he promised, reaching out to run his fingers through Brendon’s hair. A stupid thing to do, but Brendon was too tempting right then.

Brendon smiled and leaned down, and Spencer’s eyes automatically slipped closed.

“Thank you,” Brendon whispered before Spencer felt wet lips carefully press against his own. Brendon didn’t pull back but stayed where he was, lips hovering right above Spencer’s and, before Spencer knew what he was doing, he had moved upwards to kiss Brendon again. It was a lazy kiss, and Brendon opened up instantly, tasting of toothpaste. Brendon’s lips were soft, moving over Spencer’s as their tongues brushed together unhurriedly. Spencer’s body instantly began to heat up, and Brendon shifted closer, pressing into Spencer’s side.

Spencer broke the kiss, hoping to keep it as innocent as possible. Brendon’s eyes were dark, lips a bit wet now. “So…” Brendon grinned, and there was no way Spencer was able to stop laughter escaping his throat.

“So?” he questioned with an amused smirk.

Brendon snatched hold of Spencer’s wrist and examined the arm, running a finger up and down. “Nail marks,” he observed. “Ellen, I presume?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. Spencer had made the grave mistake of boning Ellen after a long time of not having fooled around with the girl, and now, she wouldn’t stop calling him. Oxytocin was lethal shit. It was the hormone women released when they had an orgasm, a hormone that enhanced bonding. In short, you gave a woman an orgasm, oxytocin polluted their minds and they thought you were their soulmate. Thankfully, men didn’t have that. Spencer didn’t have to worry about Jon getting clingy.

“So you and Ellen…?” Brendon trailed off, his brown eyes examining Spencer questioningly. Spencer wanted to point out that they were in his bed, practically naked and kissing, so was there really any point in asking if Spencer was even half-interested in Ellen?

“She means nothing. You know that,” Spencer said.

Brendon kept rubbing his thumb over Spencer’s pulse point, and Spencer pulled Brendon in for another lazy kiss. This time, Brendon moved to lie on top of Spencer, their bodies flushing together as the kiss deepened. Spencer pushed his leg between Brendon’s. He kept breathing through his nose, welcoming every brush of Brendon’s tongue in his mouth. He knew that he should stop them, stop himself, but somehow, he was content with running his hands on Brendon’s bare back. Brendon’s weight was next to nothing.

Brendon pulled back with a wet pop, and Spencer hadn’t seen his eyes sparkle like that in a while. “So…” Brendon said again, lips reddened and slightly out of breath. Spencer ran his thumb over Brendon’s swollen bottom lip. _Gorgeous._ “Are you gonna tell me who you’re fucking?”

Spencer laughed spontaneously. “Nope.”

“Oh, come on!” Brendon protested, gazing down at him and pouting, and Brendon pushed his hips down against Spencer’s just a little. “It’s me! You gotta tell me.”

“No, I don’t,” Spencer smirked, thinking this was okay as long as he didn’t touch Brendon himself.

“It’s some guy. I know it is because I noticed you limping,” Brendon said matter-of-factly.

“Maybe I twisted my ankle.”

Brendon scoffed. “Or maybe he fucked you so hard the bed shook.”

The bed had shaken, as a matter of fact. Jon had been fucking ruthless, and Spencer had gotten off on it. The situation with Jon was pretty fucked up, but considering Spencer’s current situation – his stepbrother trailing a finger over his collarbone – the Jon thing was nothing. It was good sex. Jon was getting better at it every time they hooked up, figuring out the smaller details of fucking a guy. Jon’s handjobs had improved incredibly, and Jon had stopped freaking out. Hell, Jon had even developed a sense of humour, even if it was a bit twisted: he had tied up Spencer using robes, and Spencer had not been able to move an inch, and then Jon had left the room to watch a rerun of _Friends_. Spencer had been pissed, admittedly, but had remained hard and sex-crazed until Jon had finally, _finally_ come back, smirked, and fucked him.

Spencer was having the best sex of his life. He was surprised that it was with straight boy Jon, but he was willing to go with the flow. The way Jon took complete control of the situation was a drug.

“Maybe he fucked me so hard I screamed. I don’t kiss and tell,” Spencer grinned before kissing Brendon to make him stop glaring. The kiss was far more aggressive than the previous ones, Spencer’s arms around Brendon’s lower back as Brendon tugged on his hair. Spencer’s body was reacting, and Spencer knew now was the time to put an end to the situation. Brendon shifted his hips and grinded down, and Brendon was hard.

Oh _god_ , it was too tempting.

“Bren, stop.”

“Stop what?” Brendon asked, capturing Spencer’s lips again as he thrust his hips down against him. Spencer put his hands on Brendon’s shoulders and pushed Brendon back, but Brendon was quick to snatch his wrists and pin them above Spencer’s head. “Come on,” Brendon breathed against his mouth, and Spencer’s cock was getting harder and harder by the second.

“We shouldn’t,” Spencer gasped as their cocks aligned, and they were back to kissing. Spencer knew the sentence had been “We can’t,” but it hadn’t come out like that. Brendon tasted like sin, the rotating movement of Brendon’s hips an abomination. Brendon was fucking his mouth with his tongue, all caution thrown to the wind. Spencer loved seeing the wild side of Brendon.

They broke the kiss, and Brendon moved to kiss his neck. They had made out plenty of times; Brendon, if anyone, knew Spencer’s weak spots. Spencer’s cock was fully erect, trapped inside his boxers. His head was swimming as Brendon’s tongue, teeth and lips attacked his neck repeatedly.

“You’re so hot, Spence, fuck,” Brendon breathed, sounding worked up. Brendon’s narrow hips kept grinding against his, and Spencer had to force himself not to thrust up.

They hadn’t done anything like this in a long time. Brendon would steal the occasional kiss, there would be small touches, and Spencer kept telling himself it wasn’t sexual, just a way of showing affection. Spencer didn’t know how long it had been, but this, to the point of them grinding and panting into the air of Spencer’s room, this was almost unheard of. Spencer had been doing so well in pushing Brendon away, he had almost been victorious. Now, they were back to being seventeen and overtaken by lust.

Brendon’s voice came to his ear, masculine and breathless. “What do you want?” Brendon freed Spencer’s wrists and let his hands wander down Spencer’s sides. Brendon brushed their clothed erections together. “You want this? Or my mouth? My hand?”

Spencer moaned at all of them. “Fuck, Bren.”

Brendon’s lips were on his again, bruising. “Anything. You can have it, just tell me what you want.” Brendon paused, hand on Spencer’s hip. “You can have everything.”

Brendon was staring him down, unblinking and heaving with lust. Spencer’s mouth felt dry and his cock twitched, and he had to hold onto his sanity with both hands.

“We _can’t._ ”

“Who the fuck says?”

“Bren, seriously!” he snapped.

Brendon made a frustrated sound and moved to straddle Spencer, the covers piling on the bed as they slid off them. Spencer tried to push Brendon off, but Brendon managed to pin him down again. Spencer was flushed, out of breath, and he needed release, but they couldn’t. Brendon cocked an eyebrow like a challenge, but Brendon wasn’t angry, and Spencer wasn’t really upset. His fingers itched to touch, to taste, lick, suck, bite, and Brendon was willing to give him all of it.

Brendon leaned down and gave Spencer a chaste peck on the lips. “You’re beautiful. You are so, so beautiful.” The rest of it came out as a dreamy sigh that made Spencer’s chest tighten, and for a fleeting moment, he believed that he was just as beautiful as Brendon made him sound.

Brendon was trailing down, leaving kisses everywhere. Spencer’s hands were idle, felt big and clumsy, so he kept them at his sides. He kept looking down, inhaling as Brendon placed kisses on his stomach. He was hard, so fucking hard, and Brendon, Jesus, Brendon was –

“Oh fucking Christ,” Spencer breathed when Brendon’s tongue dipped in his belly button.

“Spen,” Brendon almost whined, coming to a stop as he reached the waistband of Spencer’s boxers.

Spencer had been doing so fucking well with not getting into this shit anymore. He had been doing really fucking well.

“Handjobs,” Spencer offered in a raspy voice. Brendon nodded eagerly, but Spencer could just and just catch a split-second of hurt in those brown eyes.

Not enough. It was never enough for Brendon, never had been, and Spencer knew that it was a mistake.

He’d have time to regret it later.

Brendon tugged down his own boxers, and Spencer pulled off his without being able to look away from Brendon. They moved to lie side by side, and Brendon greedily wrapped a hand around Spencer’s swollen cock. The moan Spencer emitted was lost against Brendon’s mouth, their tongues sloppy and too wet, but the slide was fucking incredible. Spencer reached down to run his fingers over Brendon’s length, and Brendon’s cock was like he remembered it. It felt like coming home after wandering foreign countries for years; and it was familiar but still new, like Spencer had forgotten how everything worked around here. He swirled his thumb over Brendon’s already leaking slit, and Brendon shuddered and bit on Spencer’s bottom lip. Yeah. That’s how it worked.

Brendon buried his face in the crook of Spencer’s neck, mumbling obscenities mixed with Spencer’s name. Spencer focused on not coming yet, not yet, but he was entirely on overdrive as Brendon’s hand worked on his cock.

“So hot, Spencer. Shit, this is so hot,” Brendon moaned, hips jerking and pushing against Spencer’s hand. Spencer tried to keep an even rhythm, squeezing every now and then to make Brendon moan. Brendon sucked on his neck, and Spencer was lost in it, trying to memorise the feeling of the one thing he wasn’t allowed to have.

“Brendon,” he gasped, and Brendon’s lips were back on his. Brendon was starting to sweat slightly, and Spencer sucked in Brendon’s lower lip, tracing the taste of it. His hips bucked into Brendon’s hand, and they were going to come like this, lost in each other.

“Fucking good, oh my god, so, ungh – don’t stop, Spence,” Brendon feverishly groaned. “Fuck, love you so much, don’t stop –”

Spencer pushed his tongue past Brendon’s parted lips, his cock throbbing at the words, his heart swelling up, his mind stinging.

And then Spencer heard the door open. He heard a high-pitched, feminine shriek, “Dios mío!” before the door slammed shut, and Brendon and he had already broken apart, mortified, desperately trying to reach for the covers in a mess of limbs.

Voices were coming from just outside, and almost as instantly the door flew open again.

“I own this place, I can go wherever I want!”, and it was his father’s voice. Brendon ducked under the covers, and Spencer was still hard, naked, mostly visible, and in his panic, he locked eyes with his father frozen by the doorway, Lucía standing behind him, and… and that’s when Spencer’s world stopped spinning.

“Oh my _god_ ,” David spat.  



	9. Mistakes

Mistakes.

All that really defined one was whether or not you got caught doing it. Brendon thought it was fair to say that, because they had been caught red-handed, this qualified as a huge fucking error in judgement.

David was shouting, was really going for it, and Brendon did not move.

His heart was caught in his throat, not from the almost sex but from the paralysing fear. He was breathing in the sheets of Spencer’s bed, unable to move an inch. This wasn’t like Central Park with Ryan, when getting caught might have been amusing.

This was his fucking life.

David hadn’t seen him. Spencer was on the bed next to him, the sheets covering him from waist down, and Brendon was nothing more than a lump, a very fucking frozen lump. David hadn’t seen him, but David had seen enough.

“– completely unacceptable! You get your – your _friend_ out of here, Spencer James, and put some clothes on! Is _anything_ going on inside your head, boy? Anything at all?!”

“Dad –”

“I’d expect this sort of behaviour from Brendon but not you!” David hissed, and Brendon had the sense not to feel insulted. “Get dressed and come to my study when you’re decent!”

Brendon heard the door slam shut, and he still didn’t dare move. He was lying on his stomach with the covers pulled over his head, his heart beating a million times per second. Spencer didn’t move. For a good ten seconds, they didn’t move at all.

The world picked up again, and Spencer got out of bed as if hit by lightning. Brendon was quick to scramble out of the sheets, almost falling down as he got out of bed.

“Spencer, I –”

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say it!” Spencer yelled, hastily pulling boxers back on. Brendon felt awkward standing naked, but dignity wasn’t worth much right then.

“Don’t be mad,” he begged desperately.

Spencer was livid, and Brendon had to look down when Spencer’s blazing eyes landed on him. “Do you have _any_ idea how much shit we’re in? Do you?!”

“He didn’t see that it was me!”

“No, but Lucía did! _Someone_ saw us! Does that fucking matter to you at all? And what if Dad had seen you, huh? Fuck!”

Spencer was pulling clothes on from dirty ones that were lying on the floor, cursing under his breath. Brendon was speechless. Spencer’s angry words sank into him like bullets, tearing him apart. He spotted his own boxers on the floor and pulled them on, forcing himself not to break down.

He whispered, “Spence.”

“Don’t talk to me right now. Don’t come near me!” Spencer shouted as he headed for the door.

“It takes two!” Brendon shot back, angry that Spencer didn’t seem to give a damn about what they had just been doing, that Spencer acted like it hadn’t meant anything. The last time the two of them had gone beyond making out had been over two years ago. That was a lifetime.

“Yeah, it takes two, and you know what?” Spencer snapped and swirled around. “I am _never_ doing this shit again, Bren!”

“But –”

“Brendon.” Spencer’s voice was suddenly sad, and he was hurting. At least he was hurting too. They locked eyes again, and Spencer looked defeated. “I’m your brother,” Spencer whispered.

Brendon wanted to say that it wasn’t true, that he had never seen Spencer as a brother, but it didn’t change the fact that everyone else saw them as such.

Brendon didn’t know what to say. He felt like he was being slighted, like the world had given him a shitty hand of cards, and everyone thought it was a great laugh except for him.

Spencer walked out quietly, and Brendon didn’t want to think of what was going to happen with David. When they had been kids, they had both gotten the belt a handful of times. They were too old for that now, so David had other forms of punishments, and usually, this involved cutting off their money supply.

Brendon forced himself back to his own room where George was sleeping on his bed. Brendon stopped to scratch his head, and the dog woke up, slowly opening his eyes and yawning.

“Morning, boy,” Brendon said lifelessly. George barked unenthusiastically and closed his eyes again. Brendon got dressed, keeping an ear on noises from the living room lest Spencer come back. Spencer didn’t, and Brendon didn’t want to face Spencer. He nudged George again. “You wanna go for a walk, huh?”

The second Brendon said the magic word – _walk_ \- the dog jumped up and ran for the door, wagging his tail and making pathetic little whining sounds. Brendon was glad that George was out of reach of his fucked up life. If only things were as simple for him.

Brendon couldn’t find the leash anywhere in the condo, which made him realise just how rarely he took the dog out. He could hear muffled shouting from the direction of David’s study, and he felt guilty that Spencer was the one taking the blow. George was impatient, doing circles around him and barking, and Brendon eventually gave up and decided to ask Lucía.

Lucía was in the lounge, cleaning the massive windows. Brendon hesitated at the entrance before clearing his throat. Lucía jumped and turned around, and Brendon decided to stare at her shoes when he saw her reddened eyes and the tear stains on her cheeks.

“I, um… I’m gonna take George for a walk. Where do we keep the, uh…?”

“The coat hanger by the door.”

“Right. Of course. That… That would make the most sense,” Brendon said nervously. “Gracías.” He was about to make a hasty exit but stopped himself. “I’m, uh, I’m really sorry you had to see that.”

It sounded like Lucía forced down a sob, and Brendon winced.

“I thought you two had stopped with that nonsense,” the maid said in a shaky voice. “It’s not proper.”

Brendon felt dumbfounded and muttered, “Okay.”

He buttoned up his winter coat as he hurried out. He soon walked out of the building, George eagerly pulling on the leash, and he put on sunglasses and hoped no one would come asking for pictures or an autograph.

Funny. He figured that Lucía had known about him and Spencer when they had, well, first discovered each other. Lucía had known all along, had known that they had stopped, and she had sighed in relief when they had. Brendon hadn’t had a clue that she had known. But crying? Was that not, well, a bit over the top? Sure, she had walked in on them making out and giving handjobs… the two boys she had single-handedly raised.

Shit.

Brendon better go to Tiffany’s and buy Lucía something nice.

Central Park was busy, and George kept pulling, and Brendon kept pulling back. “Easy, boy,” he muttered. George spotted an Old English Sheepdog and began barking, surging for it and almost knocking down a jogger. “Sorry, sorry!” Brendon exclaimed as the jogger shot him a nasty look, and he pulled the dog back again. “George, come on, don’t be a little bitch.”

Brendon’s phone started ringing, and he pulled it out of his pocket, hoping it’d be Spencer. It was Ryan, and he pressed it against his ear as George kept pulling him along.

“Yo, ho,” he answered, chuckling slightly to make sure Ryan thought nothing was up.

“Bren, hey. Can you come around? We’ve not hung out in, like, ages.”

Brendon could fuck with Ryan. After all, he had totally been blueballed earlier, and Ryan was a really, really good fuck. But Brendon wanted to go home, lock the door, lie on his bed and finger himself, slow, deliberate, and think of Spencer’s cock, mouth, hands, everything that he had been given access to just that day. He wanted to cherish the mental images, the sounds, the taste, Spencer’s fucking voice, and sleeping with Ryan would confuse those memories. No, Brendon definitely didn’t want that.

“Not today, man, it’s looking pretty busy. Hey, I was meaning to ask, who was that guy you hung out with at the party a couple of nights ago?”

“What guy?”

“Really tall, really skinny? Beautiful smile.”

“William? He’s a friend. Why do you ask? Jealous?” Ryan said, and Brendon could hear the smirk.

“Oh yeah, you wish,” Brendon said, and George pulled so hard that Brendon almost stumbled. For a small goddamn dog, the thing had strength. “I just hadn’t seen him around before. What does he do? An aspiring actor?”

“No,” Ryan laughed.

“A musician then.”

“No, afraid not. If you come over, I’ll tell you.”

“I told you, I can’t today.”

Ryan sighed. “Tomorrow? How’s tomorrow looking for you?”

“I might have an interview, I don’t know,” he said, and Ryan sighed again. Brendon couldn’t help but feel annoyed. “Look, man, you gotta stop being so co-dependent.”

“Excuse me?” Ryan asked, voice suddenly a low growl. “Me wanting to hang out with my best friend is me being co-dependent? You know what? Fuck you, Brendon.”

Ryan instantly hung up on him, and Brendon stopped to stare at his phone in astonishment. Talk about being a moody asshole. Just a couple of days ago, Spencer had said that Ryan had changed. Brendon was starting to admit that it was true. The constant bickering, the mood swings, and especially the drugs. Brendon himself had done cocaine in the past, but nowadays, he only smoked pot, and maybe he might pop a pill when they went out clubbing. So Ryan with his drug habits? Entirely different story.

And now this. Fuck him? Well, fuck Ryan. That had been uncalled for.

Brendon felt a strong tug, and suddenly, the leash was no longer in his hands.

“George, you son of a bitch!” he shouted and sprang after the bulldog running wild through Central Park. George might have stubby feet, but fuck, he could run fast.

“George, get back here! Get back right now!” Brendon commanded and kept running as he snaked through people. Spencer would never forgive him if he lost their dog. And just as he thought it, George disappeared from view. “Fuck,” he cursed and ran even faster.

He was sure he had lost the dog. He jogged along the Central Park Reservoir, looking up and down, but George was a small dog. Oh god, Spencer was going to fucking slaughter him for this.

“H-Have you seen an English bulldog?” he asked a jogger he stopped, and she just shook her head and kept on running. “Oh no, oh no, oh _no_ ,” he muttered and started running again. “George! George, come here, boy!”

“Excuse me!”

Brendon stopped and swirled around, and a man with black hair jogged up to him. “You lost your dog?”

“Yeah, English bulldog, light brown with whi –”

“I think we’ve got him,” the man laughed, pointing up the slope where Brendon’s eyes landed on a bench where another man was scratching George behind the ear. “We were just having lunch when the little thing ran up to us. Wanted some of the food.”

“Oh thank god! Thank you!” Brendon sighed in relief and held his stomach to catch his breath.

“This way,” the man smiled, and they began to walk towards the bench.

“Should have figured that food would attract it,” Brendon joked. The man sitting on the bench was scratching the dog under the chin as the dog’s tail wagged impossibly fast. Brendon stopped in his tracks as he spotted another dog by the bench. “No, uh, I don’t have two English bulldogs –”

“Oh, the other one’s ours,” the man explained and kneeled down. “Hemingway! Come here, boy!”

The other dog, which wasn’t on a leash, darted forwards enthusiastically, aiming for the man’s outstretched arms. The man laughed when Hemingway began to lick his face. “Get off, you silly thing.”

“Your dog is far more obedient than mine,” Brendon noted. As they reached the bench, Brendon instantly said, “George, shame on you!” George had the sense to gaze sheepishly at Brendon as he munched on a sandwich.

“He’s yours?” the other man said and stood up, handing Brendon the leash. Brendon nodded. “Really good thing Pete found you. I told him the owner couldn’t be too far, and then I saw you by the lake, stopping people.”

“Really, thank you both so much.”

“Thank Patrick for keeping an eye out, I was too busy cooing at your dog,” Pete grinned. “He’s a really handsome dog too.” Brendon was still out of breath, and Pete asked, “You want a drink, man?”

He offered him a bottle of water, and Brendon smiled. “Thanks.”

“We should get another dog,” Patrick mused thoughtfully before pressing against Pete. “Pete, let’s have another baby.”

Pete fake gasped. “Honey, could we, maybe, talk about this later when we’re not in front of strangers?”

“Oh, of course,” Patrick said and rolled his eyes as a ring tone cut through the air. Patrick straightened up quickly. “Shit, that’s the client tone,” he muttered and began feeling through his pockets. Patrick frowned as he checked the caller ID. “Him again? ‘Scuse me,” he said apologetically and walked away. “Ryan, what can I do for you?”

Pete watched Patrick go, smiling slightly. Brendon grinned. “You guys are cute.”

“We’re disgustingly cute,” Pete agreed, suddenly showing his left hand. “Just got engaged, you see, we’re allowed to make people want to vomit.”

“Wow, congrats!”

“Thank you!” Pete grinned happily. “You look familiar, by the way. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Brendon considered whether or not to reveal his identity as Patrick came back with a sigh. “Sorry, I gotta go meet this guy.”

“We’ve not finished lunch!” Pete objected.

Patrick shrugged apologetically. “I know, but he says it’s urgent. I don’t know how the hell he even managed it, just a couple of days ago I –” Patrick cut himself off as his eyes landed on Brendon. “Anyway, it won’t take long, I promise.”

Pete did not look particularly happy, so Brendon decided to take his leave. “Thanks so much for catching George! Saved my life, really.”

“You’re welcome,” Patrick said, and Brendon began to drag George away, though the dog whined and seemed reluctant to leave Hemingway. Brendon heard Patrick say something like, “He’s a douchebag client, I can’t help it. Pete, stop pouting! Pete, come on!”

He chuckled because the couple seemed adorable even when bickering. George kept giving Brendon googly eyes, and he huffed. “No, you ran away. I’m not forgiving you that easily.”

He took a taxi to Tiffany’s, and a saleswoman was just about to yell at him for bringing in a dog, but just in time Brendon removed the sunglasses and she turned into melted butter with, “Mr. Urie! How can I help you this afternoon? And what a cute little dog you have!”

He got Lucía a platinum bracelet with three embedded diamonds, hoping that it would be enough to help her get over the thought that her boys were incestuous, and he spontaneously bought Grace pearl earrings, hoping that would help her stop drinking, and he ended up looking at wristwatches for Spencer.

“And the strap is alligator skin,” the woman explained.

“No dead animals, thanks. He wouldn’t like that. What about [this one](http://www.tiffany.com/Shopping/Item.aspx?sku=22759566&mcat=148205&cid=288171&search_params=s+5-p+1-c+288171-r+101323351-x+-n+6-ri+-ni+0-t+)?”

“Stainless silver with diamonds around the eloquent rectangular face. Five thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars.”

Brendon eyed the watch sceptically before he looked at George staring at him loyally. “What do you think, G-Man? Would he like that?”

George did nothing, so Brendon shrugged and bought the watch too. It wasn’t a bribe, no, but Brendon had a feeling that something in his and Spencer’s relationship might have changed for the worse. It was just a nice gesture.

And if Ryan Ross wanted to get back into Brendon’s good books some time in the near future, then a trip to Tiffany’s would be much welcomed.

* * *

Ryan’s nose started bleeding in the middle of family dinner. He looked down at the medium steak, the thyme-seasoned potatoes, and the drops of blood landing on his plate.

“Ryan!” his mother, Gloria, gasped.

Ryan blinked and watched the blood flow before he took a napkin and pressed it to his nose as he fought down laughter. The blood was beautiful, velvety red decorating the muscle of some dead animal he still planned on eating.

“Don’t laugh!” Gloria gasped further, and Ryan looked to one end of the dining table at his shocked mother before his eyes rolled the other way to his father, who looked at him disapprovingly. Like Ryan could control a fucking nosebleed, Jesus Christ.

It was a twelve-person dining table, and the three of them sitting around it seemed like a joke.

“Sorry,” he laughed hysterically, noticing he had slurred on the S slightly. It made him laugh harder. This was so funny.

He had been twenty minutes late, they were five minutes into this pretentious family dinner, and it was already going to hell.

“Are you drunk?” George bellowed angrily as the beige cloth napkin kept turning red.

Ryan tapped his nose with the napkin as the bleeding stopped. “Just a little. Not much, just a little. Come on, it’s Friday,” he said and rolled his eyes, feeling blood drying on his upper lip. “I’ll go clean, my, um. I’ll go clean my face, go clean it.”

The chair screeched the expensive oak floorboards, and he headed to the hall. After him, Gloria shouted, “It’s Sunday, Ryan. It’s _Sunday_!”

What fucking ever.

Ryan found it hard to focus his eyes as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He saw crimson stains on his shirt and in disorientation just smeared the blood across the fabric. “Damn,” he muttered, and then, “Whoa,” as he almost fell backwards, grabbing the counter just in time. He laughed again. The Glen Moray had gone to his head good and proper. He’d have to thank his dad for introducing him to single malt Scotch. It had paid off for sure.

He let out a breath and put a damp piece of toilet paper to his nose, attempting to wipe off the blood. It wasn’t just the Scotch; it was the pot too.

“Pot too. Shit, man,” he sighed heavily as the world kept spinning. His nose started bleeding again, running down his fingers like someone was pouring paint on him, and he felt woozy. Suddenly, he had been floored, the invisible force of gravity having gotten the best of him. He groaned and lifted his head, blood slipping into his mouth. He coughed and gagged, moving to his side and spitting it out. “Disgusting. Fuck.”

It tasted metallic and tangy.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, but it was all fuzzy. His mind was blacking out on him.

“Ryan? Ryan, where are you going?”

He lifted his head and he was in the hall and his mother was rushing towards him. “I’m fine,” he said and fell forwards.

“George, George!” Gloria cried.

Someone was pulling on his shirt. He was shaking.

“George, George, you’re not helping!”

“He’s drunk and high, Gloria! Stop being hysterical and look at your son! Look at the state of him!”

Gloria was crying. Ryan opened his eyes but could only see his father glaring at him, wiping Ryan’s blood off his hand. He said, “She spent hours cooking, you know.”

Spent hours cooking. His mother actually cooked.

“The Smith-Uries have a maid for that,” Ryan informed his father. They were just as rich, anyway. The slap he received on his cheek was probably meant to clear his head. Probably. His father walked away.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance?”

Ryan looked up from his position on the floor, seeing the door. His jacket was on the coat hanger where he had left it.

He wasn’t feeling hungry anymore. His muscles were cramping, but he managed to stand up. He needed cocaine.

“Ryan! Where are you going? You can’t go!”

He struggled to get the jacket on, taking a moment to concentrate on keeping his balance before proceeding to button it.

“That’s what he gets for hanging out with that crowd! We’ve both seen the magazines, Gloria, him with that Brendon and Spencer and whoever else!”

Ryan stopped to stare at the wall. Brendon. God, he missed Brendon so much.

“They all do drugs all day long, do drugs and fuck! This is what I get when I let you raise him!”

“So it’s all my fault, now is it?!”

“You spoiled him rotten!”

Gloria was still crying. Ryan managed to open the door.

He threw up outside the building, holding his convulsing stomach. The yelling still echoed in his ears. A man walking past gave him a disgusted look.

Sunglasses. Ryan put on his sunglasses. They made a celebrity, sunglasses did.

“Where to?” the driver asked after he had successfully hailed a taxi.

“Away,” he groaned, and the driver shrugged. Two blocks later Ryan remembered his address.

“Brendon was with me when I bought this jacket,” he suddenly blurted out, looking down and feeling grateful he had bled on his shirt and not the jacket. The jacket was special. “Stop here, stop here! I’ll walk,” he decided.

It was cold, and Ryan thought to the time he and Brendon had fucked in Central Park. He burst out laughing when he remembered it but ended up coughing loudly. He stopped to wait until his vision was clear again.

He wanted cigarettes. He saw a newsstand across the street and almost got hit by a car when he marched over.

“This too!” he said when he saw Brendon. Brendon looked beautiful on the cover of Cosmo Girl’s Valentine’s Day Special Edition, as did Spencer. Ryan realised he was about to buy a magazine with a target audience of teenage girls, so he said, “Oh, and this magazine about… cars and shit.”

He kept slurring the S letters, and a guy in the corner had a light. Ryan couldn’t walk a straight line, but he honourably got home by the time he finished his third cigarette and noticed he must have dropped the car magazine somewhere on the way.

On the cover was Brendon and Spencer surrounded by headlines, biggest of which read _Heartbreakers – Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie talk about girls, love and romance!_

Ryan had to laugh. There was no way he could not laugh as he settled by the living room coffee table, untying a small plastic bag. He moistened his little finger and dipped it in the white powder, sucking it in his mouth as his eyes landed on _45 ways to tell him how you feel this Valentine’s Day!_ and _Does he want to be more than friends? Find out what experts say!_

It was like the magazine had been made with him in mind.

Ryan believed in symmetry. The lines of coke were perfect, practically identical as he snorted two.

He found the article on Brendon and Spencer. Another big headline with more pictures:

_**Never been in love** _

_Dream duo Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie might make our hearts beat faster but in their interview with Cosmo Girl! say they both are still looking for that someone special. They don’t even have dates for Valentine’s Day! Yes, that’s right – us girls just might get lucky this year!_

Ryan cut another two lines. It was too much cocaine. That would be too much. It hurt somewhere inside, and he wanted it to stop. He took another hit.

Brendon was a heartbreaker. Ryan choked on his own breath. Co-dependent, Brendon had called him co-dependent. Ryan loved him, and that’s all he fucking got.

He wasn’t crying.

He picked up the magazine and threw it across the room, shouting at the top of his lungs.

There was some of the Glen Moray left in the kitchen, and Ryan poured it down. He lost his balance, and he was beginning to get way too familiar with different floors. He didn’t bother getting up.

He called Brendon. No answer. He called Brendon again. No answer. The third try and he instantly got voicemail.

Ryan called Spencer to mock him about the interview as was expected of him. They were expecting him to mock them for talking about love and romance to make it into the wet dreams of teenage girls. Maybe Ryan believed in love. Maybe, in all honesty, he just wanted a tiny bit of fucking romance.

Spencer didn’t answer.

Brendon was a heartbreaker. Ryan had used to have been one too. It had hurt less that way.

He choked on the whisky. His body was shaking from the cocaine. His heart was beating too fast, like it was going to explode. His skin was burning up, and he felt scared, he got onto his knees but couldn’t stand up, the room was spinning and he didn’t feel so good anymore, and his heart was doing a marathon, thump – thump – thump – thumpthump _thump_ -

If the conclusion of a sad human life was the inevitable death, Ryan was pleased to know that out of his so-called vital organs, his heart would go first.

His wrecked body slammed hard against the kitchen tiles, and the empty bottle smashed against his immobile form.  



	10. Exposed

Exposed.

Jon grabbed a fistful of his hair and pushed his head down. Spencer let out a pained groan against the ball gagging him, feeling the discomfort fly down to his groin, making his cock throb. Spencer closed his eyes and kept breathing in through his nose. Oh fuck.

“You should see yourself right now.”

Jon’s voice was quiet and predatory, and it suited him. The spreader bar attached to Spencer’s ankles forced him to stand with his legs far apart, and his hands were tied together behind his back. Jon had used rope, and Spencer had no hope of wriggling out of the knots. Actually, he was glad he couldn’t see himself gagged and bound up like an open invitation and bent over the dining table of Jon’s kitchen of all places. Yeah, he was really fucking glad he didn’t have to see.

Jon’s fingers danced down his spine, and Jon liked talking when they fucked. It had taken a few times and Jon figuring out Spencer _liked_ him talking, and now Jon wouldn’t shut up. Jon pushed two, slicked up fingers inside him, and Spencer shuddered.

“You love that,” Jon said huskily. Fuck, Spencer did too. He felt Jon’s fingers push deeper into him. He was already stretched well enough, but Jon liked teasing and playing with him. He had given up any power over the situation, and it had him horny out of his mind. Jon kept working him open, rubbing his fingers over the spot that had Spencer’s toes curling.

Spencer’s hard cock brushed against the cool wooden surface of the table as Jon held his head down, Jon’s fingers firm around the back of his neck. Spencer kept his eyes closed, feeling Jon all over, in the sharp, short nails digging into his skin, in Jon’s thick fingers working deep inside him. Jon’s erection was pressing against Spencer’s ass, and fuck, Spencer wanted it. He was at the point where he would have begged if he had been able to speak.

“I’m gonna fuck you so fucking hard,” Jon rasped when Spencer felt the fingers slip out of him. He groaned, the sound muffled by the ball gag in his mouth. The swollen head of Jon’s cock pressed against his asshole, and Spencer tensed up in anticipation. “Eager,” Jon said, a hint of a smirk in his tone. Spencer felt a blush creep to his cheeks. Thank god Jon didn’t see him.

Jon pushed in slowly, stretching him open even more. Jon sucked in a breath and pulled out. Spencer made a noise in protest, but Jon just fisted his hair and pushed him forward. The edge of the table pushed against his hipbones, and the pain turned him on. All Spencer could do was stay where he was and let himself be fucked. Jon slid in again, just an inch and hot and heavy, and Spencer’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“You’re really tight,” Jon moaned, his cock pushing in an inch and pulling out again. Spencer’s body was on fire, his brain melting. He was so fucking hard. Why had he never done this shit before? Seriously. And fuck, Jon teasing him was frustrating but so hot at the same time.

Jon pushed in again, deeper this time, and almost pulled out. Spencer tried to thrust back but it was impossible. Jon chuckled. Spencer didn’t want Jon to know how badly he wanted it.

“You don’t make the rules,” Jon said in a commanding voice, fingers slipping to where they were joined. Spencer tensed up when Jon slowly pushed in a finger alongside his cock. It burned, and Spencer tried to keep his breaths even. Oh fuck, oh god –

Jon slipped out his finger and finally pushed in all the way. Fuck, it was so good. Spencer’s forehead pressed against the surface of the table, and his body shook from Jon starting a fast rhythm of fucking him. His moans were muffled by the ball, and he was happy for it. He would have sounded like a wanton whore otherwise, and he didn’t want Jon to know just how much he was enjoying it. In his mind it went something like _oh fuck, Jon, harder, ah - please, so good, so,_ so _good. Right there, oh god, oh god, right there, please –_

He didn’t have to think of David or Grace or Brendon. He didn’t have to think of Skinny. He didn’t have to think of the thousands of eyes watching his every move, what he wore, what he bought, who he hung out with. He was just a guy being fucked, and the slide of Jon’s thick cock in him had stars appearing behind his closed eyes.

Jon grabbed his hair and pulled, and Spencer tensed up, groaning as Jon slid in with a smack of skin against skin.

“You’re always so fucking willing. Fuck, you’re so easy,” Jon grasped, out of breath. Spencer momentarily felt ashamed. But Jon was right, and Jon saw him like this, Jon knew what he wanted, and sometimes Spencer was petrified by the thought of Jon telling someone what he let Jon do to him. But then it was so good, Jon fucked him so well, that Spencer forgot about those fears.

Jon repositioned them, and Spencer felt Jon’s rough hand twisting around them and curling around his cock. Spencer groaned. He was almost there, and he couldn’t think anymore, it was all pleasure at an increasing, increasing pace.

“I love having you spread out like this,” Jon said slowly, a grin in his voice. Cocky fucking bastard. “You can come,” he continued, and Spencer wanted to say a nice, big fuck you but Jon pushed in hard, just right, and the fire pooling inside Spencer exploded. He came, and Jon milked the orgasm out of him with fast strokes, and oh _god, oh shit, fuckfuckfuck._

“You feel,” Jon groaned. Spencer could feel his muscles clench around Jon’s cock. Jon’s thrusts had lost the rhythm, and Spencer felt Jon’s nose press against his back when Jon came almost quietly, his body freezing up after a violent thrust.

Spencer’s knees felt weak. He was completely out of breath, his skin sweaty, his cock softening, and still unable to move as Jon held him where he wanted him.

Jesus fuck, that had been…

Jon pulled out slowly, keeping one hand on Spencer’s hip as the warmth of Jon’s body disappeared. Jon’s voice said, “You know, I could just keep you here. Carry you to the bedroom, close the door, watch some TV and wait until I feel like another go. Wouldn’t even have to stretch you later, could just push you down and…”

Spencer gathered the energy to make a protesting sound, and Jon laughed in a dark, sex-raw voice. Spencer waited as Jon untied the ropes holding his wrists together, hoping to god that the blush on his cheeks would fade. It wasn’t there from the sex.

The robe loosened, and he wriggled his arms free. His hands were on pins and needles as he reached to get the mouth gag off.

“I can get that,” Jon said softly. Spencer waited as Jon untied it. He hurried to get it out, smacking his dried tongue against the roof of his mouth. His jaw ached.

“If you just kept me waiting in your bedroom, I’d sue you for kidnap,” he told Jon in a hoarse voice and balanced himself against the table, looking behind himself to see Jon crouching, unlocking one of his ankles from the spreader bar.

“Might be worth it,” Jon mused and glanced up at him, his pupils blown and expression honest. Spencer quickly looked away. He felt his face heat up again.

“I can get the bar off,” he offered once he had one leg free.

“Okay. I’m gonna go for a shower,” Jon said, and Spencer hummed agreeingly, flattening his hair and clearing his throat.

The things he did to get an earth-shattering orgasm...

Sex was decent exercise. Not as effective as running or swimming, though, and it largely depended on how vigorous the sex was, but still up to a hundred and fifty calories in half an hour. It would have been more if Spencer hadn’t been in the passive role. But on top of that, sex was also relaxing. This type of sex specifically. Spencer was doing this for his own mental health.

He got the bar off his other leg and located his boxers on one of the chairs. His legs were achy from the position they had been in, but it was the good type of ache. He decided to use Jon’s shirt to wipe his come off the table. There was interior design, and then there was interior design. Spencer’s come on furniture hardly qualified as an interest piquing detail.

After he had recovered slightly, he checked his phone. Ryan had called him, and Spencer tried to call back but received no answer. Jon came out of the shower and threw a clean towel at him, smirking. Spencer marched into the bathroom, and in the fogged up mirror Jon had written SLUT.

“Hey, fuck you!” Spencer called back out and heard Jon laughing. It turned out Jon had a twisted sense of humour to go with his twisted sex life, and Spencer had never known that about Jon until they had started fucking. “Does he think that’s funny…” he muttered.

But apart from the fact that Jon had one on him, it was good, hassle free sex, always at Jon’s, because there they had privacy and all of Jon’s toys. They’d undress themselves, Jon would tie Spencer up to his liking (Spencer wasn’t really fussy), Jon would fuck him, they’d get off, they’d clean up, and that’d be them done. There was no unnecessary touching or foreplay involved. Spencer had always preferred male fuck buddies. Women got clingy and emotional.

When he came out of the shower, he pulled on the clothes he had left on Jon’s couch. He headed for the bedroom where he could hear Jon tuning an instrument or another. Jon was on his bed fully dressed, tuning… something.

“What is that?”

Jon looked to the doorway and back to the miniature guitar in his hands. “A ukulele. Come on, surely you recognise a ukulele.”

“I know guitars have six strings and basses four,” he offered and walked over. He expected Jon to make another sly comment, thinking comebacks to regain any honour he might have lost. Jon just handed him the small instrument, and Spencer pressed it against his chest, looking at it quizzically.

“Put your fingers here,” Jon offered, standing up and placing Spencer’s fingers on the strings.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’ll show you a song, go on,” Jon offered. “Strum.”

He did, and it sounded not very horribly off-key.

“Then your fingers here. Strum again. Good. I think it’s hot you get off on being tied down, you know.” Spencer lifted his gaze, but Jon just said, “And then you lift these two fingers off… and strum again. Down, pause, down...”

“I just –”

“You don’t need to explain it or justify it. I don’t kiss and tell, Spencer,” Jon said matter-of-factly, and Spencer knew he was right. It was just different now that Jon was confident and Spencer could no longer tease him about the sex. For fuck’s sake, he was letting Jon tie him down.

“Are we cool?” Jon asked.

Spencer took in a breath. He had to learn how to look Jon in the eye afterwards, so he did. Jon was still just a half-famous guy with a guitar and a pretty face.

“Yeah. We’re cool,” he shrugged.

“Sweet. So you go down, pause, down, down, up, change chord. Start from the beginning but go faster.”

Spencer frowned and messed up, and Jon kept taking hold of his fingers and gently putting them in the right places. After a few tries the tune became recognisable. Spencer gave Jon a shocked look. “Dude, seriously? You’re teaching me to play Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. Seriously?”

“Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door on _ukulele_ ,” Jon grinned. “Don’t tell me that isn’t ridiculously awesome.”

Spencer snorted and gave back the instrument.

“I ordered pizza. I don’t know what you like so I got you some sort of a vegetarian pizza. Should be here soon,” Jon informed him and settled on the bed, crossing his legs and playing something cute on the ukulele.

“Oh,” Spencer said in surprise that Jon was, apparently, catering for him. “I’m not really hungry, actually.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow at him. “How can you not be hungry after that? I’m starving.”

“I’m just not. I was thinking about going, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Dude, I ordered you pizza. Sit your ass down, it’ll be here soon,” Jon ordered.

Spencer cocked his hips and gave Jon a look, but Jon wasn’t fazed. Spencer was pretty sure that his _look_ used to have made Jon Walker flinch, but now… nothing. It was different now but still okay, still cool, and he had to get used to it. He gave up and sat down, wincing slightly as he did so. Jon smirked knowingly, and Spencer rolled his eyes. “We’re cool, but just so you know, you weren’t this much of a dick before.”

“Before I knew five different ways to make you moan with only one finger,” Jon mused without taking his eyes off the ukulele. Spencer found himself fighting off a grin. He grabbed a magazine from Jon’s nightstand, which turned out to be Men’s Health. Gay much?

Spencer ended up lying on his stomach on the bed and flipping through the pages as Jon was, by the sound of it, composing something on the ukulele. Spencer occasionally showed Jon a specific article that was somehow interesting to him. “Look, Jon, an article on how dressing right will get you laid. You should read this.”

“Wow, your short-term memory is really fucking bad, Smith.”

The pizzas arrived, and Spencer’s had pepper, onion and mushroom on his. It looked and smelled delicious, but Spencer felt guilty just looking at it.

It’s not that he never ate anything – that was anorexia, and he was not anorexic in the slightest. But he had grown up in the public eye, first merely as David and Grace’s adorable boy (and the press had loved that Grace had adopted him, Grace had given dozens of interviews on it too, using the adoption for fame), and later he had been known as a troublemaker alongside Brendon. And, it was just the truth of it, he had been a chubby kid. The rest of his family was downright gorgeous, and he was… not. Who wanted ugly celebrities? Naturally Spencer had done something about it. Spencer remembered how he had been featured in a “Who would have guessed?” article some two years ago now. There had been a picture of him from when he was younger, and then a new one, and it had said, “Who would have known that under that baby fat was a gorgeous hunk?”

But it’s not like he had stopped eating. He had actually gotten a personal trainer and done it the proper ‘no pain, no gain’ way, but it had been slow. Too slow. It had helped that he had thrown up half of the food he ate, always driven up the walls by guilt of having put it in his mouth the first place.

He hadn’t known back then that obsessing over everything he ate would be something he would be unable to shake off.

“Eat,” Jon said, and Spencer figured he might as well enjoy the taste and throw up once he got home. They sat on the bed and ate their pizzas, and Spencer could feel the fat on his tongue.

“Oh,” Jon frowned suddenly, catching Spencer’s attention. “I guess I got too carried away,” he said sheepishly, and Spencer lifted an eyebrow. Jon leaned forward and brushed Spencer’s neck with calloused fingertips, making Spencer’s stomach curl momentarily. Spencer realised Jon was referring to the hickey on his neck.

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You didn’t.”

“Touché,” Jon said in further surprise.

Spencer assumed Jon knew he was sleeping around just like he always had. He didn’t clarify it, though, because it would hint that they needed to talk about the sex. They didn’t need to talk about it.

Brendon had left the hickey. Brendon had always been into that, already when they had been sixteen and had used to make out when they were bored. Thinking about what he and Brendon had done just earlier that week had Spencer’s blood heating up. What had he been thinking? Now Brendon was walking on eggshells around him, giving him longing glances accompanied by wistful sighs. Spencer had to keep away from his stepbrother.

Spencer knew Brendon would come to him with a single, beckoning finger. Spencer knew Brendon would give him everything, and it was tempting. That’s what worried Spencer.

“You wanna watch a movie? Some historically inaccurate masterpiece?” Jon suggested with a mouth full of pizza, and Spencer shrugged. It was best to keep away from temptation, and Jon’s place was the perfect hideout. Not to mention that David was still furious with him for having sex “in broad daylight under my roof”. Spencer had been in his _own_ room, it’s not like he had been fucking on the dining table.

Which he had just been, actually, only on Jon’s table and not theirs. Sweet irony.

“Yeah, let’s watch something.”

Spencer had a feeling that David had seen his “friend” had been a male friend. Naturally that had enraged David even further. But David had not brought it up, which left Spencer thinking that even David wasn’t sure of what he had seen. It didn’t change the fact that David, for now, had cut him off. No money. And the money Spencer had put aside, Brendon had blown at Tiffany’s on ridiculous jewellery they didn’t need. Fuck, Spencer was still angry about that. Like he needed a fucking watch. Spencer had no money, so Skinny wouldn’t be getting money. And if Skinny wasn’t getting any money…

Spencer was planning to ask Jon to help him out. It would be humiliating but Jon was worth a small fortune. The fucking shit Brendon dragged Spencer into, honestly.

“You wanna watch Gladiator?” Jon offered when they took their pizza boxes back to the living room. Spencer had eaten two slices and didn’t plan on eating more.

“Gladiator is a ridiculous distortion of Commodus –”

“It’s a movie!”

Spencer marched over to Jon’s DVD collection and pulled something out randomly. “Let’s watch this.”

Jon chuckled, and Spencer noticed he had pulled out Gladiator. His fucking luck.

Brendon called halfway through (right in the middle of Spencer’s rant how Commodus most certainly had not lusted after his own sister, Jesus Christ), but Spencer didn’t pick up. Commodus didn’t lust after his sister, but Spencer on the other hand…

Brendon called four times and left voicemail in the end. Not long after, Brendon called Jon, and Spencer rolled his eyes. “Don’t pick up, we’re in the middle of a movie.”

“I can multitask,” Jon said, and Spencer concentrated on Russell Crow shouting, “Are you not entertained?!” Spencer wasn’t particularly entertained, no. “Hey man, what’s up?” Jon asked as he reached for Spencer’s pizza box, mouthing ‘Can I?’, and Spencer nodded. Jon had eaten an entire pizza and was apparently hungry for more. “Come again?” Jon asked as he bit in.

Spencer kept watching the movie and wondered if now would be a good time to ask for money. How would he explain it to Jon, even he didn’t know.

It took him a second to realise that Jon had gone silent.

“No, he’s here. Right. We’ll be right there. We’re leaving now.”

Jon hung up on Brendon, and Spencer lifted an eyebrow. Jon was kind of pale.

“What?”

Jon stared. “Ryan’s in the fucking hospital.”

* * *

Jon pushed the double doors open as he ran down the white corridor with Spencer just behind him.

“This way, this way!” Spencer said as they looked at the signs to determine where the hell they were going. It was a big hospital.

Jon had no idea what had happened. Brendon hadn’t clarified, and it seemed like Brendon didn’t know either. Had Ryan been run over? Broken a bone? Gotten into a fight? And how serious was it? Jon had no idea but Brendon had sounded… dead.

Brendon looked dead too. They ran around a corner, and Brendon Urie had never looked as small as he did then, leaning against the white wall of a busy hospital corridor. His head was drooping in defeat, like that of a man who had personally witnessed hell and realised how fleeting life was.

“Bren!” Spencer called out, breaking into a run. Brendon lifted his head and looked their way, pushing himself off the wall but remaining where he was. Spencer pulled his stepbrother into a violent hug, running hands over Brendon as if to make sure Brendon was in one piece. “Are you okay?” Spencer asked, stepping back and cupping Brendon’s cheek. Brendon nodded, expression blank.

Jon half-expected Brendon to cry, Brendon seemed like the crying type, but Brendon’s eyes looked dry.

“What happened? Is Ryan okay?” Jon asked hurriedly. Spencer’s hand dropped from Brendon’s cheek, and Jon noticed that Brendon reached out to clutch it tightly.

“I don’t know,” Brendon said simply. “Ryan was found unconscious at his place. Matt called me. They won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Have you called Dad? He knows the medical circles in Manhattan, we could have Dad call whoever runs this hospital,” Spencer rushed out, brows knit together in worry. Brendon only shook his head again.

“The doctor went in a few minutes ago. Matt’s in there, she’ll come out and tell us,” Brendon said and nodded towards a door. The plate outside said ‘Family Room’, and Jon realised Ryan’s room was somewhere else entirely. “Ryan’s parents are in there. They kicked me out, wouldn’t let me wait with them.”

“Assholes!” Spencer snarled instantly, and all three of them exchanged glances. Gloria and George Ross were just about the most abhorrent couple Jon had ever come across. It wasn’t anything personal, really, but they hated Jon for no reason at all, and Jon knew that the couple detested their gang above all else. As was typical for a couple who were filthy rich Manhattan élite and rolling in it, they were conservative and xenophobic.

“I tried calling you,” Brendon said.

Spencer shot a guilty glance at Jon. “We were watching a movie…” Spencer muttered. And fucking their brains out, too.

“I called you _four_ times and you didn’t pick up.”

Spencer looked lost and pulled Brendon in for another hug. Brendon exhaled and curled his hands into fists in the back of Spencer’s shirt. Jon wished he would have someone to hug.

The door opened, and a white-coated doctor came out, wearing a grim expression as he passed them. The brothers pulled apart, and Jon stood by them.

“Is Ryan okay?” Spencer asked instantly.

The doctor stopped. “I’m sorry, I can’t –”

“We’re his best friends!” Spencer snapped, protectively pulling Brendon to his side.

The doctor sighed and said another, “I’m sorry,” before walking away. Spencer cursed, and Brendon continued to look solemn. In the face of their own mortality, Brendon looked lost. It wasn’t something Jon was used to seeing on Brendon. Spencer looked taller than before, an aura of authority to him. Jon had a hard time associating this Spencer with the man he had tied up and fucked just a few hours before.

They remained in the hall, no one saying anything, but somehow hurled up together like a pack of animals trying to keep warm.

Ryan had been found unconscious. What did that mean? Jon’s intuition had an idea but it seemed like a mean thing to say. Who knew, maybe Ryan had some chronic illness they had never been aware of. Who knew?

The door opened, and a teary-eyed Matt came out. Someone was crying, and it unnerved Jon. For a fleeting second he thought that maybe Ryan was dead.

“What the hell happened? Is he okay?” Spencer asked instantly. Of course the Rosses let Matt stay with them, seeing as they liked her. She wasn’t supposedly corrupting Ryan like they were.

Truthfully, Ryan Ross had corrupted himself. Either him or the modern world. Jon thought it was a combination of both.

Matt had her arms curled around her middle. “He’s fine. The doctor said he’ll be fine. They… they pumped his stomach, and they…” Matt’s voice faded away as her eyes welled up. “He overdosed on alcohol and drugs, and he –” She burst into tears.

“No fucking way,” Spencer breathed out, face distorted.

Brendon looked pale, and Jon’s intuition was saying a big, fat “I told you so.” Ryan had been an accident waiting to happen.

“We saw it coming, didn’t we?” Jon pointed out.

Spencer’s blue eyes caught fire. “No, Jon, we didn’t see it fucking coming!”

“Well, I did! I’m sorry to say it, but Ryan –”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up, right now,” Spencer ordered, and Jon realised that they were back in the real world where Spencer dictated the rules.

Ryan was a cocaine addict. Why did people think you had to be a homeless bum in order to be a junkie? Yeah, Jon smoked pot sometimes, which was less harmful than smoking cigarettes. He felt sorry for Ryan, but Ryan had been asking for it. And besides, Matt had said Ryan would be fine, so it seemed like Ryan had gotten lucky. Jon had a hard time feeling too sympathetic.

“Ryan called me earlier today. I didn’t pick up,” Brendon said in monotone.

“He ODed. It was an accident, Bren,” Spencer was quick to say.

“What if it wasn’t?” Matt cut in, long brown hair falling in front of her tear-stained face. Even Jon froze at this. Brendon went a shade paler, and Spencer shot Matt a glare.

Surely Ross hadn’t attempted suicide… He loved himself far too much to die.

The door of the family room opened, and the Rosses walked out. Jon could feel his jaw clench at the sight of them, and the air between them and Ryan’s parents was filled with sparks of mutual dislike. Gloria looked unhinged.

“Come with us, Gwen,” George said. Matt nodded obediently, smiling at them apologetically.

“Can’t we see him?” Spencer interrupted.

“Only his family,” George shot back, and Spencer seethed.

“I’ll be back,” Matt promised quietly, and she had the sense to look apologetic. They all knew Ryan was closer to the three of them than anyone else.

Jon saw no reason for them to stand in the corridor, and he managed to usher the twins to Level 3 where there was a quiet, bare cafeteria that served stale coffee. Jon thought that he might have felt better if Brendon had cried, but Brendon just kept staring at his hands. Brendon looked like he had lost his favourite playmate, which Jon knew he had.

The fourth seat by the round table was empty. It felt like a statement.

“He wasn’t trying to kill himself,” Spencer finally said after a long, long silence. “That’s ridiculous. We’re his best friends, we would have noticed. Did he seem suicidal to you two?”

Jon shook his head, and Brendon muttered a quiet, “No.”

Jon got himself another coffee. It gave him something to do, lift the cup to his lips, sip down the liquid. Spencer kept looking around restlessly, and Brendon said nothing at all. They had been sitting there for an hour when Matt came looking for them. An invisible force was pulling down her shoulders, and she looked tired.

“They said that he won’t be waking up until tomorrow. You guys can visit him then, but there’s nothing you can do here now,” she said as she sat down. “His parents went home.”

“Don’t even have the decency to sit by his bedside, do they?” Brendon asked.

“This is not their fault,” Matt pointed out. She had stopped being hysterical. Jon figured it was a good sign. “I saw him, he just… looks like he’s sleeping. He’s… gonna be okay, you know? That’s what matters.”

“Why did you get to see him but we didn’t?” Brendon muttered bitterly.

“Gloria called me when she couldn’t get hold of Ryan. He went over for dinner and was fucked out of his mind, and then he just took off. I got to Ryan’s just when they did. They had spare keys. He was… he was just lying on the kitchen floor,” she said, brows furrowing like she was still unable to digest what she had seen. “The place was disgusting. Rotting food, empty bottles, coke still lying on the coffee table,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it got that bad and no one ever noticed.”

Suddenly Jon felt guilty, but what could he have done? There was no way an intervention would have made a difference. Ryan was smart, after all, Jon had expected Ryan to be smart about the drugs too.

Too much of a good thing.

“Do you need a ride?” Spencer asked Matt, but she said her dad was picking her up. Spencer called up their chauffeur, and Jon could sense their reluctance in leaving the hospital.

“What if Ryan wakes up and there’s no one there?” Brendon asked in an angry tone. Jon tried to figure who Brendon was angry with: Ryan, his parents, or him and Spencer for not being there when they had been needed.

The older Smith-Urie driver, Sid, showed up eventually, and the three of them climbed inside.

“To West Village, Mr. Walker’s place, sirs?” he asked them, and Jon nodded, but Spencer said, “No, just drive home.”

Jon looked at Spencer in confusion, and Spencer said, “You should stay with us tonight.”

The second Spencer said it, Jon realised that he didn’t want to be alone.

The guest room was a few doors down from Spencer and Brendon’s part of the condo. Lucía instantly fixed up the room, giving Jon sorry glances and asking, “Are you sure you don’t want anything else, mijo?” Grace wasn’t home, and David was doing a special consultation in California. Jon got a pair of Spencer’s old pyjama pants and an old, loose t-shirt, and it was barely dark outside when he patted barefoot into the twins’ living room.

Brendon and Spencer were on the couch with their dog in both of their laps, and it was a painful reminder that George had been named after Ryan. It seemed that Brendon, too, was wearing Spencer’s old pyjamas.

They had regressed to three little kids who were scared out of their minds. Jon wondered what their acquaintances would have said of them now, the ones who saw them in clubs and bars and movie premières, acting like they were invincible.

Spencer and Brendon made room on the couch, and Jon fit himself next to Brendon. He didn’t know what to say. He realised that no one really knew what to say.

Eventually Brendon broke the silence. “The last time I talked to him, he asked to hang out, and I said I was too busy. He got pissed off and, yeah… He acted like an asshole, so I haven’t talked to him since.”

Spencer sighed heavily. “Bren…”

“And today, he called me, like… four times. And I didn’t pick up.” Brendon’s knees bounced nervously, and Jon had never heard Brendon sound bitter like that.

“You didn’t pick up because you were still pissed off?” Jon asked.

“No,” Brendon said and stilled. He chuckled. “I didn’t pick up because I was busy jerking off.”

Spencer burst out laughing, and Jon had to join him. Brendon grinned between them, and Spencer kept laughing, laughed so hard that he was wiping his eyes, and Jon didn’t know what to make of that.

“He tried calling me too,” Spencer said once his breathing was back to normal.

“What difference would it have made? He was probably completely fucked when he called anyway,” Jon pointed out, and his friends nodded agreeingly.

“But if… What if Matt was right and… and he was calling to say goodbye?” Brendon shrugged.

“Then I’m fucking offended he didn’t call me,” Jon joked, and Spencer cast him an appreciative look. Jon kept telling himself that Ryan hadn’t attempted suicide, but deep down had no way of knowing. Doing drugs was self-destructive, but had Ryan really been that unhappy? Over what? Ryan had money and friends and was generally adored. What possible reason did Ryan have to be unhappy?

“I called Dad. He said he’ll make a few calls, and Ryan’s gonna have the best doctors look after him,” Spencer told them, and Jon felt better knowing that.

“You called him?” Brendon asked in surprise. “He’s not angry with you anymore?”

“Why would David be angry with Spencer?” Jon cut in.

Brendon grinned broadly. “Spencer got caught with a boy in his room.”

“Oh, shut up, Brendon,” Spencer said with a roll of his eyes.

Jon forced himself to laugh. “Really now?”

“True fact. And whoever it was, he must’ve been talented with the way I heard the moaning through the goddamn walls,” Brendon said, grinning even further, and Spencer kept his eyes on the TV that wasn’t even on. Jon could see the hickey on Spencer’s neck again. He had never really heard Spencer moan because he liked gagging Spencer. Jon heard muffled moans, sure, but not proper ones. He hadn’t known Spencer was a loud moaner. You’d think he would have known that of someone who he was doing most of his sexual activities with.

Jon wondered what Spencer saw in him. It must have been the tying up. Sucking neck was a completely foreign concept to Jon because they never even kissed. Spencer had other boys for that.

Maybe Spencer had categorised friends. Jon was good for kinky sex, Guy X for making out, Guy Y for blowjobs, and Girl Z for pussy. Spencer seemed like the kind of guy to have a system.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek.

“And Dad didn’t see it was a guy, he was just pissy I was getting some when he himself probably isn’t,” Spencer said with a half smirk.

“Of course my stepdad isn’t getting any! My mother is Virgin Mary herself!” Brendon said, and Jon and Spencer both snorted. “Hey, you two! She has had carnal relations only once, and that’s when I was conceived! Another true fact,” Brendon said with an accusing point of his finger.

Spencer patted Brendon’s shoulder. “You keep telling yourself that, Bren.”

“Children always want to embrace their own sexuality and ignore the undeniable existence of the same in their parents,” Jon added in. “And, Brendon? Grace is still incredibly hot.”

“I hate you, Walker,” Brendon sighed in defeat, and they laughed.

The conversation kept missing Ryan’s sharp comments. Jon realised he missed Ryan’s sarcasm. Ryan’s sarcasm was trapped somewhere in a worn out body that was lying on a clinical hospital bed.

That night Jon realised that he no longer was the outsider amongst his own friends. He had always been the new guy, and Spencer had kept him at bay. Now Spencer had invited him over, and Jon felt like they were at Ryan’s wake. But at least Spencer had let him in.

And Jon realised another thing. He realised that they were not invincible, that they were mortal. They talked in hushed voices, laughing and trying to cover up the fact that they were scared, scared as hell.

And Ryan’s ghost lingered.  



	11. Drip

Drip.

The IV needle went in at the back of Ryan’s hand, and Brendon was happy they had put it through there and not Ryan’s wrist where it might have damaged the tattoo. He wasn’t sure where they usually put needles, but still. Brendon ran a finger over the tattooed letters. _Thin as a dime._ Ryan looked too thin as he lay on the hospital bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily.

Drop.

They had gotten their tattoos at the same time. They had both been drunk, and Ryan had been on drugs. It used to make Brendon laugh, but not now. Ryan had gotten tattoos on both of his wrists, and Brendon had tattooed piano keys on his left arm. It had been a cool design. He knew how to play piano too, but just a little bit. Mostly, the idea had been completely impulsive and drunken, and they had woken up the next day, looking at their bodies and shouting, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Brendon liked his tattoo, though. It was cool. He had even decorated around it a little, floral designs. David had shouted and Graced had shouted more, but they had embraced it once the press had adored Brendon for being bold and getting such unique body art.

Brendon had thousands of amazing memories with Ryan.

This? This whole sitting by Ryan’s bedside in hopes of his friend coming around? This was not included in those amazing memories.

The nurse had said that Ryan had come around earlier, and he had been told what had happened and where he was. Ryan had fallen back asleep after that.

Ryan’s fingers were cold, and Brendon kept them laced with his in hopes of warming them up somehow.

“I have to go,” Spencer said. Brendon looked at Spencer sitting on the chair on the other side of the bed. “If he wakes up… tell him I’ll come by later, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Brendon said. Jon had left a half an hour before because he had booked a practice space for the day. Ryan’s parents were at work. The selfish bastards didn’t have the decency to even take a day off when their son had almost fucking died.

At the thought, Brendon squeezed Ryan’s fingers tighter.

“Will you be okay?” Spencer asked, and Brendon smiled tiredly. They had hardly slept.

“Yeah.”

Spencer walked to Brendon and smiled down at him, running fingers in Brendon’s hair. “Call me if you need anything at all,” he said before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Brendon’s forehead.

Ryan had overdosed at a convenient time. Spencer had been so angry with Brendon because David had almost caught them fooling around, then getting even angrier when Brendon had blown ‘Skinny money’ at Tiffany’s, and since then, Spencer had been avoiding Brendon. Now?

Spencer pulled back and looked at him lovingly. Brendon felt warm.

Ryan had overdosed at a convenient time and given Brendon automatic forgiveness and affection from Spencer.

Spencer left the hospital room, and Brendon was left to watch over the living dead alone. The room was really nice, a VIP suite in hospital room terms. Ryan had beige wallpaper, a big flat screen TV embedded into the wall, a fantastic view from the window, and flowers stood in a vase by the bed.

“You’ve got a nice room,” Brendon told Ryan, hoping for a reaction that didn’t come. He sighed in boredom and laid his head on Ryan’s thigh. Ryan looked sick, pale with dark circles around his eyes. His hair was dirty, and the IV kept dripping transparent liquid into his body. Ryan was connected to machines that made beeping sounds, and Brendon idly watched the monitor show Ryan’s heartbeat.

Brendon woke up much in the same position, with his head on Ryan’s leg and Ryan’s fingers entwined with his. He had no recollection of falling asleep and was startled by a finger running along his cheekbone. His head shot up, and he blinked at Ryan gazing at him.

“Hey,” Brendon said and smiled through a yawn, voice heavy with sleep. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said weakly and groggily observed, “you’re here.”

Brendon could tell Ryan was out of it from whatever drugs the hospital had pumped into him. “Of course I’m here. We were all here, but Jon and Spencer had to go,” he explained with a sorry shrug. “Do you need anything?”

Ryan’s eyes looked around the room before landing on the bedside table, and Brendon hurried to get up and pour Ryan a glass of water. He figured out how to prop up the upper half of the bed so that Ryan was half-sitting, and he even tried tipping the cup to Ryan’s lips, but Ryan said, “I can do it.”

Brendon tried to ignore how Ryan’s hand shook under the weight of the plastic cup filled with water. Ryan looked slightly ashamed, and Brendon looked away because he didn’t know how that made him feel.

Brendon took his seat again, giving Ryan a supportive smile. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Ryan said and lowered the cup from his chapped lips.

“You really scared us.”

Ryan looked slightly annoyed. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “So you weren’t trying to…” Brendon trailed off. He wasn’t being subtle and Ryan was in no condition, but he had to know.

Ryan’s eyes were glassy, and it took him a moment to register the comment. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” he snapped angrily, and for a second, Brendon saw the old Ryan he was used to seeing. Not this pale, sickly man lying on a hospital bed in a gown that really did not suit him at all.

“I just wanted to make sure,” he explained apologetically. “I mean, we don’t know what the hell even happened, you know? We were really fucking scared.” He had been petrified. He had been devastated, and he still hadn’t quite recovered.

Ryan sighed, and Brendon took the cup as Ryan lay down. Ryan whispered, “What I remember makes no sense.”

Ryan closed his eyes and stayed still. Brendon studied him, wondering who this man was and what he had done to his friend.

Brendon didn’t know what else to say, so he offered to go get the nurse. He waited outside the hospital room as the doctor went in, and he could hear the doctor speak to Ryan in a stern tone. When the nurse and the doctor came out, they smiled at Brendon and told him not to tire Ryan too much. Ryan seemed more awake when Brendon went back in. Brendon figured they had given him a drug for the drowsiness.

“So, what’d they say?” he asked cheerfully.

Ryan snorted loudly. “They recommended rehab.”

“Well,” Brendon shrugged and rolled on the balls of his feet. “That might be, you know, that might not be a bad idea.” Ryan looked downright insulted. “Ryan. You took a lethal amount of drugs and alcohol. I mean, I don’t mean to –”

“But it was an accident.”

Brendon wanted to say that there should be no such accidents but only took his seat by the bed again. Ryan had been this close to death and was still as stubborn as he ever had been.

“When do you get to go home, then?” Brendon asked, trying to remain cheerful.

“In a few days, apparently. So hey, could you go to my place and pick up some stuff for me?”

“Sure. Yeah, you name it, I’ll get it,” he instantly offered. He wanted to feel like he was doing something instead of just sitting on his ass. Ryan started listing DVDs since his hospital room had a DVD player. Brendon typed in the list on his Sidekick, adding the few books Ryan wanted, clothes and so on.

“Great. I’ll go get these, and you can get some rest in the mean time,” Brendon said as he went to the dresser where Ryan’s stuff was. Brendon found the keys easily, seeing as Ryan hadn’t had much on him when they had gotten him to the hospital.

“Oh, also,” Ryan said, “the bookshelf in my bedroom, there’s the Bible.”

Brendon quirked an eyebrow. Wow, had Ryan found God?

“My coke stash is inside it. Add that to the list.”

Brendon stopped altogether and looked at his friend lying on the bed. “ _What?_ ” he managed to spit out. Ryan stared him down obliviously, and Brendon just about exploded. “I am not gonna bring you drugs! Are you insane?!”

Ryan frowned. “Well, I am not gonna lie here for two days with no drugs!”

“Ryan! You almost died because of cocaine! You have to stop doing it, don’t you realise that? You _can’t_ do coke anymore!”

“Stop exaggerating,” Ryan laughed.

“Exaggerating? I’m exaggerating?! You listen to me! I am not gonna bring you your stash. I’m gonna go to your place, and I’m gonna fucking flush it down the toilet, you hear me?” Brendon snapped angrily. He headed for the door but stopped when Ryan all but shouted his name. Ryan looked miserable and small, like Ryan was made of thin porcelain and had started cracking in the corners.

“Bren, _please_. Look, I promise I’ll try to stop but… I just need a little bit, just to keep me going. You can’t just stop smoking, can you? It’s best to smoke less first, right?” Ryan reasoned desperately. “It’s the same with coke.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what it’s like!” Ryan snapped. “Do you really want me to start fucking vomiting and having seizures because of withdrawal?! A real friend wouldn’t want that! A _real friend_ would bring me my stash!”

Brendon was slowly starting to realise just how addicted Ryan was. Ryan sounded and looked like a desperate man. Everyone in their circles did some drugs, it went without saying, and Brendon had always seen it as innocent fun. It made them feel good, so where was the harm?

The harm was right in front of his eyes.

Brendon dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wristwatch. He walked over and handed it to Ryan.

“Here, I got you this.”

Ryan stared at the watch, taking it and examining. Ryan’s eyes lit up at the sight of the diamonds.

“You got me this?”

“Yeah,” Brendon lied. Spencer had refused to accept Brendon’s bribe. “Like a… gift for quitting cocaine.”

“But –”

“Ry. I love you, man. I can’t have you lying on hospital beds when I need you out there with me, giving the world the finger. You know that, right?”

Ryan kept his eyes on the watch. “I love you.”

Brendon smiled and gave Ryan’s hand a squeeze. “I know, dude. You’ll be alright. Seriously. You’ll be happier when you’re not dependent on coke anymore. You’ll see.”

Ryan stared at him with an expression that looked slightly heartbroken. Brendon knew that Ryan becoming clean was a hell of a lot more complicated than he was making it out to be. He almost felt sorry for Ryan.

“I’ll be back with your stuff,” he promised.

He took a taxi to Ryan’s place, pleased to find out that it had been cleaned since yesterday. He remembered Matt’s description of the place having been a dump, but it was spotless now. The kitchen floor was shiny, and Brendon tried not to visualise Ryan lying on it.

The coke was in the Bible, just like Ryan had said it’d be. Brendon firmly flushed down the white substance, knowing it was for the best. He found a suitcase and laid it out on Ryan’s bed, checking the list to make sure he got everything Ryan had requested.

As he looked for books in the living room, he found a copy of the Cosmo Girl! with his and Spencer’s interview. He chuckled that Ryan had it, sitting down on the couch and flipping through to find their faces amongst perfume ads.

Brendon still had no date for Valentine’s Day. He didn’t believe in such holidays anyway, but it was coming up and Spencer had plans. And not just any plans, but Spencer had a date. And no, not just any date, but with his ex-girlfriend Jenny who just would happen to be in town and had called Spencer up to see if they could “hang out”. Yeah, right, hang out on Valentine’s Day. Brendon knew what kind of hanging out a slut like Jenny was after.

Spencer and Jenny had dated for four months and had split up a year ago. The press had loved their romance, seeing as Jenny Tyron was one of the newest and freshest faces in Hollywood, and Spencer’s occupation was making girls swoon (the magazine said so, and Brendon could confirm that fact). Brendon had a feeling that Jenny had read their interview in which Spencer plainly said he had never been in love. Brendon hoped that Jenny had read it and that it had stung.

Brendon put the magazine away. It had stung him too, but Spencer had just been saying it. Surely, Spencer had just been saying it…

He got the books and threw them in the suitcase lying on Ryan’s bed. Ryan had mentioned a notebook, and Brendon began searching the nightstand. Pot, cigarettes, matches, empty condom wrappers. Brendon decided to play it safe and pocketed the pot. He’d smoke it himself. It’d be better that way.

He found the notebook and noticed a handful of pictures in between the pages. He pulled one out and smiled as he noticed it was of him and Ryan in a party or another. He vaguely remembered it. There were a few more from different parties, some of them with him and Spencer or him and Jon or both, but most of them were of him and Ryan.

He slid the pictures back between the notebook, figuring that Ryan wanted them too. Why he had been featured in every single one of them, he didn’t know. There was no point in trying to analyse the whims of a cocaine addict.

* * *

The first punch hit Spencer just below the ribs. It set stars behind his eyelids, his breathing cutting short like a suddenly extinguished flame. The second punch hit him higher and hurt more, maybe because the first one had been numbed by shock.

Spencer doubled over in pain, and Skinny’s thug holding his hands behind his back let go of him. Spencer caught a glimpse of Skinny’s shining shoes as he dropped down on his knees.

“As you can see, I am a man of my word,” Skinny’s voice came from above him. Spencer had figured that out right about then, Skinny’s words echoing in the parking hall. The pain radiated to every limb, making his vision blur as he feared for his life.

Spencer realised right then that he lived in a bubble where he was rich and loved and could do anything. Skinny came from the real world, the dog-eat-dog world, and felt no guilt whatsoever over bursting Spencer’s bubble. Skinny was probably laughing on the inside.

“I’ll pay up, I swear,” Spencer heard himself say. He forced himself to gaze up at Skinny’s bloated face. He held his middle and couldn’t help wincing, and Skinny’s eyes were so fucking cold. At that moment, Spencer knew he might not get out of this mess in one piece.

“Consider this your first warning.”

Spencer nodded because he had gotten the message. The man who had held his hands back gave his shoulder a shove, and Spencer landed on the concrete, hitting his hip as Skinny and the man walked back to their car.

At least, it was Spencer who was taking the punch and not Brendon. Spencer couldn’t stand the thought of Brendon on the floor of a parking garage, ribs aching and nausea settling in. Fuck, he was going to vomit.

Spencer coughed, but nothing came out. Coughing made his middle hurt all the more, and he ended up groaning in pain.

Spencer had managed to stand up by the time Skinny’s black car glided by. Spencer could see his reflection in the tinted windows, standing there in designer clothes, with both arms curled around him with a pained expression. He didn’t look like anything he was used to seeing in magazines. Right then, he looked like a joke.

His heart kept pumping adrenalin into his system. And when the car turned to the ramp to drive up and back into Manhattan sunlight, Spencer felt carbon dioxide leave his body in shuddered gasps as his shoulders slumped, and he momentarily swayed.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, fisting his hair and forcing himself not to break down. He really had thought that he had Skinny under control, but he didn’t. Skinny thought he was too slow and dealt with the matter with his fists.

Spencer didn’t want to end up in the hospital room next to Ryan’s.

Spencer forced himself to move, though the pain made him feel like it was a good idea to double over. He walked back out slowly, heading home, taking a taxi, and the driver recognised him and talked this and that and that one movie he had seen Grace in, and how Spencer really didn’t look like his mother, but no wait, Spencer was the adopted kid, right? Spencer felt like he was going to throw up as he nodded in confirmation.

“Anyone home?” he called out in the foyer, though the condo was much too big for his voice to carry far. The only welcome he got was George’s feet hitting marble, echoing loud in the vacuum of their so-called home before coming into view with an enthusiastic glee and a few encouraging barks.

Brendon would be at the hospital, still. Brendon would have to be forced to leave Ryan’s side; he probably wouldn’t do it on his own.

Spencer was still holding it together, somehow, trying to ignore the fresh memory of fists sinking into his body and the soreness of his fucking bones.

He froze as he passed the opened double doors of the lounge, eyes landing on a small figure lying on one of the couches. He remembered the first time he had come across the same sight, how scared he had been. Now, there was a familiarity in his steps as he made his way over. An empty bottle of Merlot stood by the couch, and Grace didn’t even bother with getting a wine glass anymore. She was passed out with one arm dangling over the edge of the couch, breathing in heavily.

Spencer carefully shook her but received no reaction.

“I can’t leave you here like this,” he muttered, noticing the tear stains on Grace’s powdered cheeks. Drinking made her emotional, and she was always crying over the most nonsensical things, like a beauty pageant she had lost when she was seventeen, or that one boyfriend who she had loved and regretted letting go.

Spencer carefully picked her up, one arm hooking under her knees, the other supporting her upper back. She was a tiny woman, shorter than him, having been on a non-stop diet for twenty years or so, and she weighed next to nothing. In her drunken slumber, she managed to wrap her arms around Spencer’s neck as he carried her out of the lounge. He managed to get to his parents’ bedroom as all the doors on the way were open. Grace had a thing about keeping the doors open, exclaiming that the world needed space. She hated how he and Brendon kept the doors to their quarters closed all the time. Well, she hated it when she was around long enough to notice.

They were just a pair of double doors, but they served as a defence mechanism.

He laid her down on her bed, and Grace muttered something, her breath smelling of wine. Spencer thought he heard the name David and said, “Dad’s coming back in a few days.”

Grace opened her eyes that were identical to Brendon’s, brows furrowing. “Diana? Where’s Diana?” she slurred.

“I don’t know who she is,” Spencer answered honestly, and Grace looked anguished for a second before her eyes fluttered shut.

Spencer searched around for a blanket, eventually finding one. He carefully laid it on her, even tucking it in. He shouldn’t have been taking care of her. He was twenty-one, but it didn’t mean he didn’t need parents. He had always needed parents.

Grace’s hair was stuck to her forehead, her mouth gaping open. She was a beautiful woman who didn’t look very beautiful right then.

Spencer knew Brendon was angry with her, but Spencer had never had it in him.

“You’re the only mother I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

His words were lost on Grace’s sleeping form, and he walked away, somehow feeling emptier than before.

In the mirror of his bedroom, he assessed the damage. The skin over his left ribs was a nasty red, some parts of it turning purple. He thought of Skinny’s fists, he thought of Ryan lying on a hospital bed, he thought of Brendon’s tongue, Jon’s hands, and Grace sleeping off her intoxication, and suddenly, he was grabbing onto the frame of the mirror, trying to hold back a sob.

He would not cry over this life. Not today, not ever. He was not weak; he was perfect. It could all be so perfect if he tried hard enough.

A knock on the door accompanied by a “Spence?” broke his train of thought, and he rushed to his bed, pulling his shirt back on and calling out, “Yeah?” He wiped the corners of his eyes before turning to see Brendon smiling at him.

“I thought you’d be at the hospital,” he said instantly because Brendon had frozen, his eyes cautiously taking him in.

“Yeah, I’m heading back. I went to Ryan’s to pick up stuff for him. Are you okay? You look…”

“I’m fine. Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Brendon smiled. “Good! So hey, Jon called me just now. Apparently, he stopped by the hospital, and guess what?”

“What?” Spencer asked with a soft smile, crossing his arms over his bruised chest.

“Ryan’s parents forced him to sign up for rehab. Ryan’s pissed,” Brendon laughed like it was a good joke. Spencer forced a laugh too. “But it’s… it’ll be better in the long run, don’t you think?” Brendon asked, voice wavering.

“Yeah, it will be. Ryan can’t trust his own judgement right now.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

Brendon smiled bravely, but in truth, Spencer had not seen Brendon smile genuinely since Ryan landed in the hospital.

Spencer sensed rather than knew that Brendon needed him, and Brendon instantly moved into Spencer’s outstretched arms, nose burying into the crook of Spencer’s neck when they came together in the embrace. Spencer winced at the pressure against his body as Brendon wound his arms around Spencer tightly.

“Don’t disappear on me, Spence,” Brendon whispered sadly.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, not thinking of how their bodies pressed together, how they fit well together. “Don’t let it get to you, you know? Ryan makes his own decisions. We’ll help him through this,” he muttered, feeling Brendon’s hot breath against his neck. “ _I’ll_ help you through this,” he said without a second’s hesitation.

Brendon pulled back, eyes wide, lost and scared, and said, “Promise?”

Spencer knew Brendon never acted that way around anyone else. To the rest of the world, Brendon was always so cocky and sure of himself. Sometimes, Spencer wondered which part was the act.

“I promise,” he said, and at the words, the bruises throbbed. What was another blow anymore?

Brendon beamed at him. “I’m gonna go give Ryan the stuff he wanted. You wanna come with?”

Spencer shook his head, making excuses until Brendon sighed and agreed to go on his own. After Brendon had gone, Spencer swallowed his pride and threw himself on his bed before choosing Jon from his speed dial. Jon picked up almost instantly, music crackling through before suddenly dying down.

“Hey, man. Sorry, was playing there.”

“You went to the hospital, I heard.”

“Yeah. Ryan was pretty furious about the rehab, dude. I’d stay the hell away for now.”

“Brendon’ll calm him down,” Spencer said, knowing it was true. He bit on the nail of his thumb as he realised that the only reason he had called Jon lately was to get together and fuck. Suddenly, fucking seemed out of place. Ryan was in the hospital, going to rehab. Sex should have been the last thing on his mind, but he craved it. He wanted not to be the boss of himself, even if it was only for an hour.

“So, listen,” Spencer began slowly. “Remember how Brendon said that my dad caught me fooling around with this guy?” Jon made an agreeing sound at the other end of the line. “Yeah, well, he was pissed off so he cut me off. I was hoping you could loan me a bit of money as I wait for Dad to get over it.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, I just… Why not Brendon?”

Because Brendon had no money either after his little trip to Tiffany’s. And because Brendon had to be kept away from the Skinny mess. Ryan had already upset Brendon’s naïve worldview. Spencer had to keep Brendon safe.

“He’s being an ass, thinks it’s fun not to help me out,” Spencer lied and, for a second, felt guilty for lying to Jon. “So, yeah, I was thinking ten grand.”

To Spencer, the pause seemed to last an eternity, though Jon almost instantly said, “ _What?_ ”

“It’s not like I’m not gonna pay you back,” Spencer countered, trying to sound cocky and arrogant. He closed his eyes to stop his heart from hammering inside his chest. He had never asked one of his friends for money in his life. How did beggars survive in the streets? This was humiliating.

“I mean, that’s pocket change, but what do you need that much for?”

“Clothes,” he replied.

“Clothes? Are you serious?”

“Wooing women and alcohol and eating out. I’ll pay you back. _Trust me_.”

He said the last two words emphatically, and they seemed to make an impact on Jon. Maybe, they both were thinking about how Spencer let Jon tie him up to his liking. They could trust each other more than most friends.

“You don’t come cheap, Spencer,” Jon chuckled but still sounded hesitant.

“You know I’m worth it,” Spencer joked back, and he knew he had the money.

Another hole plastered, another close call survived, but now, he was being forced to reach out and seek help from the unknowing. He wasn’t putting Jon in any danger, though. He was pretty sure he wasn’t, but the thought still made him feel guilty.

He cared too much, that was his fucking problem. He cared too much.

Jon changed the subject to the new song he was working on, and Spencer wiped the corners of his eyes and hummed in agreement, killing the despair filling him from head to toe.

Being weak was a luxury Spencer had no time for.


	12. ILY

ILY.

The most significant thing a human being could say to another squished into three degrading letters.

The psychiatrist asked, “And for how long have you felt that way?” after noting that Ryan constantly talked about Brendon, and Ryan said that of course he constantly talked about Brendon. Brendon was all he thought about.

He had felt that way since his twenty-second birthday when Brendon gave him some expensive gift or another, completely devoid of meaning like it always was. The card had had a picture of a champagne bottle and on the inside a printed text of “Happy birthday!” with a few drawings of balloons. Nothing special there either.

Brendon had signed the card, “ILY. Brendon xo,” and Ryan had thought that he loved Brendon too.

Of course, it was followed by denial, those things usually were, but love was not a fleeting thing. It was not fleeting, and as a result, Ryan had ended up in rehab. He blamed it on his useless heart – not on Brendon, and certainly not on himself.  
  
Ryan had never talked to his old therapist on the basis of the guy having been a useless asshole, but he found himself talking to the one at the clinic. Dr. Harris wasn’t too old, and she had her Harvard degree framed on the wall. It didn’t mean that he didn’t lie to her.

“And how does this arrangement of… friends with benefits make you feel?”

“Good. Just great. I don’t want anything more than that.”

At the end of the session, she said something like she felt that Ryan was making progress. It was nice of her to lie too.

Back in his room, Ryan had nothing to do. He had been in rehab for a week and had read every book and watched every DVD. His room looked a little like a hotel room except that they locked him in every night, that they kept him away from objects with which he could harm himself, and that the window had bars. And it wasn’t a rehab centre, it was a “private clinic” for the rich and famous. The nurse, who loved gossiping, had told Ryan that she had once held Lindsay Lohan’s hair back as she had thrown up. Ryan wondered if the nurse had put it in her résumé.

He was drugged up on buprenorphine as a part of the detoxication programme, enabling him to not scream his lungs out. But the drug was a fucking joke in comparison to cocaine. They gave him a doze of buprenorphine every other day now, slowly decreasing the amount. Ryan had suffered from fever, nausea, hallucinations, cramps and tremors, downright desperation and bottomless depression, and one day, they had tied him to the bed as he had screamed in fury, ready to get the fuck out of there and kill anyone in his way.

It was better now. A little.

He didn’t have his Sidekick. Someone from the gang came to visit on most days, and it was nice.

Nice?

He felt fucking pathetic.

One of the nurses stopped by as Ryan had cuddled up on the armchair, reading a book he had already read. “Do you need anything at all, Mr. Ross?”

He was a cocaine addict but still “mister”. He was rich, after all.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he muttered lifelessly. The buprenorphine had stopped affecting him, and he was left clear-headed. The world looked grey like that; it felt numb, looked dull. And all Ryan could feel was a yearning inside of himself, a craving slowly getting stronger and eating away at him. His fingers twitched.

“Any visitors today?” the nurse went on to ask, and Ryan shook his head, wrapping one arm around his raised knee. “No? Well, that’s a shame. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know.”

Ryan gave her an impatient smile. “And all of my friends will be fucking their dates tonight, and visiting me in rehab probably pales in comparison.”

The nurse wasn’t fazed, just gave a pitying look. “No one special in your life?”

“No.”

“Well, there _could_ be. The Bible is just in the drawer of your nightstand!” she informed him before leaving. Oh yeah, Ryan could just see it. ‘Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Jesus, baby boy, these are my friends.’

Not happening.

There was a common room, but Ryan didn’t like mingling with the others. He lived like a hermit, talking only to the nurses, the doctor and the shrink. Jon visited the least, which was not surprising because they didn’t have much in common, but Jon still came around, and that was the point. Spencer stayed the longest, but Brendon visited most often. Matt acted like a deer in headlights, and his parents did the disappointed parent façade. So-called friends and acquaintances knew he was in rehab and didn’t visit.

Ryan was on the last page of the book a second time that week when the nurse came back. “There’s someone to see you after all!” she chirped encouragingly.

Ryan’s heart swelled up. Brendon.

He closed the book and forced a smile, noting how the cocaine craving chewing at his insides went down a notch at the mere thought of Brendon’s presence.

It wasn’t Brendon, though. Ryan felt his eyebrows arch as he took in the man by the doorway, smiling at him cautiously.

“Hey.”

“Um… hi,” Ryan returned. The nurse smiled brightly and closed the door after William, who walked closer hesitantly. “How did you get in here?” Ryan asked because you had to be on a list of permitted visitors.

“My friend Gabe? Yeah, the DJing doesn’t support him. He’s a nurse, actually, and he knew someone who knew someone working here, and… well,” William said sheepishly. “You don’t mind, do you? I – I mean, I can just go if –”

“I’m bored,” Ryan said exaggeratedly and pressed his hand to his forehead for dramatic effect. “Entertain me.”

William laughed, taking the seat by the door and placing it across from Ryan, leaning down to see the cover of the book he was reading. “Palahniuk! I love his stuff.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asked sceptically. William nodded and started talking, and Ryan was surprised that William felt perfectly at ease. They had met only a handful of times before, and Ryan was better friends with dozens of people, all of whom were guaranteed not to even consider visiting him. William smoothly talked around Ryan’s overdosing incident for probably half an hour of discussing contemporary literature.

Ryan enjoyed the conversation, finally exclaiming, “No way is Bukowski superior to Fante! You can’t say that! You’re an ignorant fucker if you say that.”

“Then I’m an ignorant fucker,” William said, and Ryan was surprised that William didn’t put up a fight.

“At least you’re honest,” Ryan granted him.

William grinned and sipped from the glass of water he had gotten. “You don’t seem depressed. That’s good.”

“Why would I be depressed?”

William paused slightly. “Well, uh, because…”

Ryan sat up straighter. “They’re not saying that I tried killing myself, are they?” he asked, and William’s face said it all. “Fuck! I was not trying to end it! Fuck, it’s gonna be hell going back when everyone thinks I’m some emo kid slicing my wrists. Jesus fuck. I hate my life. _This_ is going to make me emo.”

William shrugged apologetically. “Or it might make you cool. That, you know, you’re in touch with your pain.”

“No, it’ll make me the loser who couldn’t even kill himself.”

“Well… I’ll put the word out that you just OD-ed.”

“Which makes me the loser who didn’t know his own limits,” Ryan sighed, suddenly feeling like the clinic was a sanctuary. The ridicule, the fucking ridicule he’d have to face…

“Maybe you didn’t know your limits, but it was an easy mistake to make. I mean, when I did some of that coke of yours? I was so fucked, it was insane. I didn’t feel like I was back to being myself for three days or some shit. And I was like ‘Never again, Bill’, you know?”

Ryan chuckled. “Bill?”

“Yeah. All my friends call me that. You should too,” William said before looking around the room. “What is there to do here to kill time?”

“There are board games in the common room, like anyone would serio – Where you going?”

“Let’s see if they have Monopoly!” William said as he headed for the door. “You coming or not?”

They had Monopoly. The February rain was beating against the (barred) window next to the table they occupied, and William wholly concentrated on the game. Ryan kept looking at the other people in the common room, all looking so fucking miserable. They had given their lives to alcohol and drugs, and now…

“Look at them. Fucking look at them. This has got to be the most depressing thing I’ve ever, ever seen. They all look so… sick.”

William lifted an eyebrow and noted, “You don’t look so good either, Ry.”

Ryan blinked. Only Brendon ever called him “Ry”. He quickly changed the subject, not wanting to talk about how his entire body was fucked from the different chemicals. “So, why is it that you want to spend Valentine’s Day with a suicidal junkie?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day?” William asked before his eyes widened. “Shit, so it is! Yeah, Gabe’s got that hot date he’s gone on and on about.”

“And you have no hot date because…?”

William shrugged. “I’m a loser with no love life. You?” he asked with a smirk, and Ryan gave him the finger. His eyes landed on a pale man whose eyes kept darting around the room, cradling himself softly.

“That was me a couple of days ago,” he admitted.

“So you’re better now,” William said. “And I’m buying Marvin Gardens! I always want to get the yellow ones.”

“Not better,” Ryan muttered and laughed desperately. “All I want to do is call my dealer. I feel like I’m fucking dying.”

William looked sympathetic and passed him the dice. Ryan unenthusiastically dropped it on the board, and William said, “Ooh, Virginia Avenue! Pay up, pay up!” Ryan lost interest and gazed out of the window, and they had classical music in the background, plants in the corners, all the furniture was new and expensive, but nothing could change the fact that it was rehab.

Ryan felt a hand land on his. William was smiling at him from across the table. “You’ll be grateful for this some day.”

Ryan said, “Maybe,” but what he really meant to say was that he hoped so.

God, he fucking well hoped so.

* * *

Spencer had his arm around Jenny’s waist. Jenny’s hair was long, shiny and black.

Jon knew Jenny from when Spencer had dated her, but hadn’t seen her since the break up forever ago. She had been amazing in that movie that had come out last year, the one with John Malkovich in it. A rising Hollywood star, Jenny Tyron. She was gorgeous.

And Spencer had his arm around her.

Jon was drunk.

“What a shitty party,” Brendon commented, and Jon’s eyes snapped from across the crowded room and back to Brendon.

“Not my fault you came without a date,” Jon observed with a lopsided grin, tightening the arm he had around his date. He had his arm around someone too, and he hoped that the entire room saw it.

“I can’t believe you came by yourself!” Jon’s date, Miranda, laughed. Her laughter was a bit too high-pitched, an indication that she was excited from all the celebrities in the club, Brendon included. She worked as a bartender in Tribeca; Jon had met her at one of his shows.

“Valentine’s Day is bullshit. If you love someone, you should make them feel special every day, not just one day of the year,” Brendon reasoned.

“That is so romantic!” Miranda said. “Is that not romantic, Jon?”

“It is,” he agreed and took another sip of his drink. It was sweet and fruity with an umbrella sticking out, and needless to say, he had let Miranda take a trip to the bar by herself. He had taken her out for dinner and paid for it, so he was expecting at least a blowjob later on. He hadn’t had sex in a while, and he hadn’t been blown in ages, and the more he drank, the more he wanted lips on his cock.

Jon kept gazing around, willing down the revolting drink. Jenny and Spencer were talking to a crowd of people, and Spencer was laughing. The people surrounding him all looked like they adored him a little.

Jon could tie that man down and fuck him. Jon could have absolute power over him, could have Spencer trembling with a flick of his fingers, and no one in the club knew it except for him and Spencer.

Fuck. Fuck that turned Jon on.

He noticed Miranda was no longer next to him, and Brendon said she had gone to powder her nose. Jon shrugged. They were being antisocial and staying away from the mingling crowds. Brendon leaned against the wall, poking an ice cube with a straw. The club lights changed the colour of his face from blue, green, red.

“I miss Ryan,” Brendon declared.

Jon noticed that Spencer was now making his way over with his date. He finished his drink in one go and rushed out, “So what’s the deal with Spencer and Jenny?”

Brendon looked even sourer. “Fuck me if I know.” The second Spencer and Jenny were in earshot, Brendon called out, “Jenny! What’s up, girl?”

The two hugged, and Jon was impressed that Brendon could hide his dislike perfectly.

“Jon, right?” Jenny asked, and Jon lifted his glass and smiled, because they knew each other too. Spencer was holding her hand, and they made a good looking couple. Jenny had a beautiful mouth. Maybe Spencer was with her for the blowjobs.

They started conversing. Jon had seen Spencer push back to get more of his cock. He had seen it, felt it, heard it.

Miranda came back, even more star-struck and breathlessly telling Jenny that she adored her dress. The five of them laughed and joked, and Jon kept staring at Spencer, because Spencer too had a pretty mouth, and he noticed Brendon staring at Spencer too. Miranda wanted to dance, but Jon didn’t feel like it, so instead Brendon took her to the dancefloor as Jenny told them that DiCaprio was really modest and friendly in person. Someone came over to tell Jenny they loved her and that they loved Spencer too. Jon stood still as the odd one out. He was only semi-famous anyway; you had to be into a certain type of music to recognise him.

Jenny went over to say hi to “Maggie”, and Jon recognised that it was that girl from The Dark Knight. She had been kick-ass, though not as awesome as Heath Ledger. He was alone with Spencer, and Spencer looked stunning.

“Did you get the book?” he asked.

“Oh! Oh yeah, I did.”

“Good! I wanted to give it in person, but Lucía said you were out with Jenny, didn’t know when you’d be back so, yeah. Yeah. Did you like it?” he asked quickly. “I- I mean I heard it’s the newest shit, scholarly excellence on how the Roman Empire didn’t fall but, like, was politically transformed. Cutting edge, I heard, and –”

“Yeah, no, it looked really interesting,” Spencer said. “You didn’t have to get me it.”

Jon shrugged. “Saw it and thought of you.”

“Well…” Spencer said and paused. Jon blinked. He hated being drunk when Spencer was sober. “It wasn’t like a Valentine’s Day gift, was it?”

Jon burst out laughing. “What? No! Dude, come the fuck on.”

Spencer shrugged. “Just making sure.”

Jon snorted. “Please.”

It hadn’t been a Valentine’s Day gift. Fuck no, he had just happened to give it on Valentine’s Day. He wasn’t buying a guy romantic presents, no, no. Romans, romantic? No. Really. What? Absurd. Totally absurd.

“Absurd,” he said.

He was about to throw a remark on the apparent reunion of Spencey and Jenny, or whatever disgustingly cute names they probably called themselves behind closed doors, when his eyes landed on a woman with long blonde hair.

He knew her. He stared, frowning, finishing Brendon’s drink and tasting the liquor on his tongue.

Sapphire. Jon’s stripper-not-a-whore was standing by herself in a cheap looking dress that still flattered her and brought out her curves. Sapphire, a stripper-not-a-whore from Queens. What the _fuck_ was she doing in a party with New York élite?

“Excuse me, would you?” Jon said, not even looking at Spencer as he made his way over. “Hey there,” he greeted her, and Sapphire turned around, blonde hair shining in the lights.

Sapphire’s eyes widened. “J-Jon! Well!”

She seemed just as surprised to see him and was quick to glance around worriedly. Yeah, no kidding. Jon wouldn’t tell the world she was a whore if she didn’t tell them that he paid for sex. Seemed like a fair deal. But. But, no, wait. What was she doing there?

“Small world, eh? What brings you here?” he asked. He wasn’t happy that these two different worlds were coming together, and even in his drunken state, he knew it was bad.

“Oh, I’m on a date! Valentine’s Day,” she said, and Jon wondered if she put out on the first date. He wondered if she’d suck him off in the back room if he asked her to, if her date would wonder why she tasted like come when they had their goodnight kiss at the end of the night. A blowjob wasn’t a bad idea. Sapphire gave good head. Good idea. This was a good idea.

“And where’s your date?”

Sapphire glanced around and then pointed at two men talking, the other one being Brendon, the other… Was that the Smith-Urie chauffeur? Chauffeurs and prostitutes? Was this a VIP party or a Halloween fancy dress party?

Sapphire seemed to have recovered from the shock as she now purred, “It’s been too long.”

Jon smiled lopsidedly, full of drunken charm. “I’ve been busy.”

Busy fucking Spencer, which he actually hadn’t done since Ryan had overdosed. But fucking Spencer had been quite satisfying, as satisfying as not buying Spencer Valentine’s Day gifts, so he hadn’t called Sapphire up in a long time. He had actually been enjoying tying up a guy more than tying up a girl. Wow. Oh. Huh. But it was just sex. Spencer said so, everyone said so. Just sex. There was no harm in two consenting adults doing whatever they pleased.

Sapphire smiled. “Well, you know my number.”

“And your date over there doesn’t mind?” Jon pointed out. He couldn’t picture hookers having any real, healthy relationship.

“It’s my business what I do,” Sapphire said firmly, maybe a bit of feminism pushing through. For a woman who let herself be fucked for money, she seemed to have self-esteem somewhere under there.

“Elise!”

Sapphire’s smile faded when someone called out the name, and Jon quirked a curious eyebrow. Elise? She averted her gaze. “I, um… should go. Nice bumping into you.”

“Yeah. Have a good night,” Jon said politely, watching Sapphire, apparently Elise, walk away to the blond man beaming at her. Elise. Sapphire. Huh. Jon was quick to find Brendon and Miranda back with Spencer and Jenny. “Bren, did I just see your chauffeur?” he asked, not remembering the name.

Brendon laughed. “Yeah, I got Tom on the guest list. He’s trying to impress a girl.” Miranda and Jenny awwed, but Jon was trying not to laugh that the Smith-Urie employee was after something Jon had paid for a dozen times. He tried not to laugh but failed. Poor fucker.

It was obvious that Sapphire would not be performing any of her normal duties tonight. Fair enough, Jon could understand that. He wasn’t going to be an asshole about it. Miranda was second choice, and Jon resumed trying to woo her. He wanted to be sucked off.

“You wanna dance, Spencer?” Jenny asked cheerily, and Spencer nodded.

“Jenny was so nice!” Miranda cooed after the couple had left. “And they’re really cute together!”

“You want another drink?” Jon asked. He liked wet, slightly sloppy blowjobs. If Miranda was drunk, well, that might just make it better. Spencer and Jenny were grinding on the dancefloor as he and Brendon went to the bar.

Jon noticed Spencer. He couldn’t stop noticing Spencer, and it was pissing him off.

Brendon was drunk. He leaned to Jon’s ear and said, “She doesn’t love him, Jon! Jenny, she doesn’t really love him! She just uses Spence to get publicity, man. She doesn’t love him!”

“You think so?”

“I fucking know so!” Brendon declared, got two shots of vodka and passed him one. They drowned them simultaneously.

Jon wiped his mouth to his sleeve. “I don’t know what he’s doing with her either! Spencer could have, like, anyone in this club, right?”

“Right!” Brendon nodded vigorously. “She’s not pretty either! That long, black hair? Not natural, she told me once. Not natural!”

“I think she’s pretty,” Jon said, and they got two more vodka shots. She was pretty. Really pretty, but not pretty like Spencer. Not that Spencer was pretty, no, because, well, Spencer was a guy and guys weren’t pretty.

“Where are the drinks?” Miranda’s voice came, and they turned to see her looking at them impatiently. Oh yeah, Jon had a date.

“Something sweet and fruity for the lady!” Jon shouted to the bartender, pointing at Miranda. He had been meaning not to drink too much, but it was no use now.

Jenny didn’t love Spencer. Jon doubted Spencer loved Jenny either. It didn’t mean anything. Jon didn’t care anyway. Meant nothing.

Brendon told him a story of George running from him in Central Park, and Jon was laughing. Miranda cuddled to his side, and they found a table to sit around. Miranda kissed him on the lips, and Jon smiled into it, picturing the lips around his cock. Miranda beamed and said she had really loved Jon’s album. Chicks always said that.

“How goes the new album, by the by?” Brendon asked.

“I’ve got, like, twenty or so songs figured out. Some of them are just sketches, some of them are solid. I need to start finalising them.”

He couldn’t see Spencer anywhere, and that unnerved him. Miranda was small and warm and smelled of a perfume with a slight citrus scent in it. Jon kept an arm around her shoulders, and she whispered, “I really like you, Jon,” grabbing his wrist and staring at him earnestly.

“You too, babe,” he returned easily, and Brendon said something loudly to get the attention back to himself. Jon got up and said he’d be right back. He needed to empty his bladder. When he stood up, the room swayed, and wow. Oh wow, he was drunk.

Spencer was in the men’s room, fixing his hair by the sinks, and Jon shouted a delighted, “Hey!” as he entered the room. He sauntered over. “You having fun? Brendon’s brooding. I don’t think he likes Jenny.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t like her,” Spencer admitted.

Jon nodded and leaned against the counter. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like her. Love her, I don’t know.”

Spencer quirked an eyebrow. “What’s love got to do with it?”

“Tina Turner and cynicism on Valentine’s Day. Nice,” Jon laughed for no particular reason. “Hey. Hey, we could go back to my place!” he suddenly realised and nodded. “Let’s leave this joint, what do you say?”

“Not tonight.”

“It’s been a while,” Jon countered, a while being far too long. Jon wanted to get off. “Come, come,” he urged, taking hold of Spencer and pulling them into an unoccupied bathroom stall before anyone could spot them.

“What the hell, Jonathan?” Spencer asked when Jon locked the door. Jon just laughed now that they were stuck in the small space, placing hands on Spencer’s hips and pulling closer.

“I want you to suck me off.”

He flushed Spencer to him, Spencer taking a faltering step to keep from falling over, and Spencer’s, “No fucking way,” came out rushed against Jon’s neck.

“Yes way.”

Spencer pulled back, hair in front of his eyes. He laughed. “Fuck, you’re drunk.”

Jon snickered because he kind of was. Spencer had never as much as touched Jon’s cock, how could he have, being tied down all the time, but it didn’t mean Jon objected to the idea. It was a good idea. Spencer had a nice mouth, and he wanted it on his cock.

He placed a hand on the back of Spencer’s neck, pulling closer and trying to press Spencer down. “Suck me off,” he repeated, trying to sound commanding.

Spencer easily removed Jon’s hand off him and said, “ _No._ ”

Jon blinked. “I just gave you ten grand, and you won’t even blow me?”

Spencer’s eyes suddenly caught fire, and he shoved Jon against the stall wall. “Fuck you,” he hissed, forefinger stabbing into Jon’s chest. “There is _no_ amount of money that –”

“’Kay, ‘kay,” Jon hurried to say, and Spencer’s eyes were icy. Well, shit, that had been a mistake. “Hey, c’mere. Come on,” he beckoned, pulling Spencer closer.

“Fuck off,” Spencer said, trying to untangle himself from Jon’s hold.

“I’ll go down on you,” Jon offered.

“You’ve never even –”

“I’m a quick learner,” Jon countered because he was. He had picked up guitar so easily when he had been twelve that his dad had called him a prodigy. He shoved Spencer against the opposite wall and dropped down on his knees. He wanted to suck Spencer’s cock. He hadn’t known that he wanted to do it, but life was full of surprises.

His hands were on Spencer’s belt, but Spencer brushed him off, gazing down with a shocked look. “You’re not –”

“Spence, shut up and let me,” he said impatiently, and Spencer’s arms fell to his sides idly, showing the obedience Jon was used to. He managed to unbuckle the belt, and he struggled with the zipper of the ridiculously tight jeans. His own cock was straining.

Jon pulled down Spencer’s jeans and boxers enough to get Spencer’s cock out. Jon had jerked Spencer off plenty of times, but this. This. Spencer wasn’t properly hard yet but was definitely getting there, and there was no way Jon could look up because he knew Spencer was staring down at him. He wrapped his fingers around Spencer’s cock, deciding to stroke him until he was hard enough. He didn’t want a mostly flaccid dick in his mouth.

Spencer pushed his hips forwards, leaning against the stall wall behind him. Jon attacked the jutting hipbones to stop himself from thinking about the whole sucking cock thing he was about to do. There had never been much of lips on skin contact, if any, but mouth-on-cock action surely opened a door to dozens of other activities. He mouthed Spencer’s left hipbone, licking his tongue over the pale skin. He could smell Spencer, musky and dark, and he got the urge to just kiss Spencer everywhere, trace that scent and taste. Spencer tasted good, and Jon was surprised by it.

Jon’s free hand slid beneath Spencer’s tight shirt, the fabric rolling up. He forced a glance upwards, his mouth freezing below Spencer’s belly button.

Bruises. Nasty yellow, purple bruises on Spencer’s lower ribs.

He pulled back, frowning.

Had he done those? They looked… violent. Surely, he hadn’t. Surely, Spencer would have told him to stop if he had been rough enough to cause those. The bruises were healing. Jon had never seen them. It didn’t add up.

“What…?” he gaped drunkenly, not understanding, forefinger tracing them, his other hand around Spencer’s now fully erect cock.

“Jon. Jon, just,” Spencer said in between deep, shuddery breaths, and Spencer’s hand was on the back of his head, urging Jon closer to his cock.

Jon didn’t understand. His mouth opened and then his eyes fluttered shut, and Spencer tasted familiar. Maybe Jon once had licked Spencer’s come off one of his fingers when Spencer hadn’t noticed, as an experiment, curiosity. The tip of Spencer’s cock in his mouth felt big. How exactly did people do this?

He wrapped his hand around the base of Spencer’s cock, holding it firmly and swirling his tongue around the head, buying time. Spencer had one hand on the back of his head, gently urging him on. Jon could taste the mix of alcohol and Spencer’s cock, and he sighed contentedly.

It wasn’t easy. He took the first few inches in, coating Spencer in spit, and he moved his head, suckling, trying to figure it out.

He saw the muscles of Spencer’s lower stomach tremble.

“More,” Spencer said breathlessly.

Jon knew time was an issue here. He took in more, opening his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, that way it was easier not to acknowledge he was sucking off Spencer Smith in a club’s bathroom stall. He kept going until his nose pressed into the hand he had around the base, and it was all he could do not to gag. He liked it, though. It wasn’t bad.

His lips stretched around Spencer’s girth as he began to bob up and down, hollowing his cheeks. Spencer made little sounds above him, and Jon thought of what Brendon had said, that Spencer was a loud moaner. Jon wanted to hear it, though Spencer would keep it down in a place like this. They should go to Jon’s, and Spencer could be as loud as he wanted.

He bobbed off and ran his tongue over Spencer’s slit, and fuck. Fuck, that’s what Spencer tasted like, just like he remembered. He licked again, rubbing his tongue on the sensitive skin, and Spencer sucked in a breath. “Ungh, J-Jon, shit.”

Jon was the fucking king of blowjobs.

He went back to blowing Spencer, increasingly more confident. It was wet, saliva smearing against his chin, and his jaw ached. He sucked harder, and Spencer said, “A-Ah, watch the teeth, uh –”

Oh, right. Fair enough.

He bobbed off, quickly stroking Spencer and catching his breath. Spencer’s cock was shining with his spit, pulsating in his hand. Fuck.

Jon glanced up, and Spencer was staring down at him, mouth hanging open, pupils blown. Spencer looked slightly wretched, and Jon’s stomach dropped.

Spencer’s hands were pulling his head closer again, and Jon let his tongue run along the underside of Spencer’s flesh before slurping the head in, making Spencer let out a loud gasp. Jon tried not to grin, seeing as, well, his mouth was full of cock again. Spencer’s hips were moving ever so slightly, and Jon thought that he could let Spencer fuck his mouth if it wasn’t sure to end up in disastrous gagging and choking on dick.

“I’m gonna come,” Spencer’s voice came after more of Jon trying to make it good, alternating suction and pressure and tongue work, and his lips and jaw were aching to the point of Jon wanting to stop.

He had never really heard Spencer’s sex voice, the raspy breathing and masculine groans heavy with lust. It almost made _him_ moan.

Jon bobbed off, mentally wincing at the pain radiating from his jawbone, and he was stroking Spencer off, his hand gliding over the flushed skin. He was completely out of breath, and he pressed his forehead against Spencer’s hip, keeping his eyes on the cock in his hand. He wanted to see it.

Spencer’s fingers laced in his hair, and a second later, Spencer came, shaking under Jon’s touch. Spencer let out a barely audible gasp, and Jon was slightly disappointed. He had wanted a loud, slutty moan of his name. Spencer’s come splattered on the sleeve of his shirt, but he kept stroking Spencer until he was sure Spencer was done.

“Fuck,” he breathed, feeling the sticky substance run between his fingers. He let go of Spencer and found himself sitting on the floor of the bathroom stall, leaning to the opposite wall and wiping his hand on toilet paper. Spencer remained motionless, eyes closed and mouth open, coming down.

“Jesus,” Spencer said, pulling his jeans back up with shaking hands.

“Not bad,” Jon said, trying to make it not sound like a question. His voice was hoarse.

Spencer laughed breathlessly, cheeks flushed. He zipped up and said, “Not bad.”

Not bad. Good. That was good.

Jon stood up, and the world was spinning slightly. He wasn’t hard, not anymore, but he still wanted to take Spencer home. God, he’d be more than hard by the time they got there.

Spencer reached over to wipe Jon’s swollen lips with his thumb as he was clearly smirking at Jon. When Spencer pulled back, Jon grabbed his wrist. Jon stared at Spencer, and Spencer stared back.

Jon’s stomach dropped, and his eyes were flying between Spencer’s eyes and lips. He blinked. He almost heard the small click in his brain.

Oh no. Oh shit. Oh fuck.

Jon let go of Spencer’s wrist.

Spencer said, “I gotta go, Jenny is –”

“Yeah, you just –”

“But, thanks, it –”

“You’re welcome. Miranda is probably waiting for me.”

“Yeah, and Brendon and…”

“Everyone,” they said in unison. Jon kept his eyes on the floor.

“Later,” Spencer said.

Jon stayed in the stall, making sure no one would see them in close proximity to one another. Ever. Again.

His cock was half-hard. He had just sucked off a guy. He could taste Spencer’s cock on his tongue. Warmth was spreading in his veins, warmth mixed with horror.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Jon Walker, Caucasian male, twenty-three, musician, single, Democrat, straight with a flashing question mark. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.


	13. Gossip

“Gossip.”

Matt grinned. “Gossip?”

Ryan picked at the corner of the blanket he had wrapped around himself and nodded, snuggling further into the armchair. “I gotta keep up with what’s happening.”

“Where to start?” Matt said and clasped her hands together. Ryan saw the news on TV, sure he did, but in rehab it was hard to get the real news of what was going on with the people he knew. “Well, apparently, Kirsten started a feud with Ellen over –” and she was off. Other people’s lives were more interesting because they weren’t Ryan’s. He listened eagerly, nodding, and pictured himself out of the hell hole of the private clinic.

“Oh, check this out!” Matt declared, looking in her gigantic bag before finding People magazine. She flipped through the pages and passed it to Ryan. “Here you go!”

Ryan took it and instantly recognised Spencer with – “Is that Jenny?”

The two were coming out of a club or another, both looking fabulous and not holding hands but still together, and the caption read, _Former sweethearts Jenny Tyron and Spencer Smith have been spotted all over New York this week. The actress is in town to promote her new movie, Men of War, also starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The couple split up in early 2008, but according to People Magazine’s sources, they have rekindled their puppy love romance!_

Ryan looked at it in astonishment. “Spencer hasn’t said anything to me. I’m kind of surprised.”

“I’m not,” Matt said as she took the paper back. “Jenny Tyron is beautiful. How can she be so skinny?”

“Doesn’t eat anything, I suppose,” Ryan shrugged. Spencer had never struck Ryan as having been particularly into Jenny, even when they had dated. But Spencer might date her again, why not? Apart from the obvious fact that Jenny lived in Los Angeles. Ryan wouldn’t make too much of it; they were just rumours upon rumours.

“Anything else interesting?”

“I think that’s it, pretty much. I don’t know, I’ve been busy catching up with my glaciation course.”

“Polar bears swimming and all that jazz?” Ryan asked disinterestedly before adding, “You, uh… so you’ve been clean?”

“I deleted Peach’s number the day you OD-ed. I am done. Finito, baby.” Matt made it sound so fucking easy. “So how are you doing?”

Ryan shrugged. “Therapy for the psychological addiction continues, though they say my body is almost clean of coke now. Like, they say my body can cope; it’s my brain that’s making me crave the drug.”

“Well!” she said and rubbed her hands against her thighs. “You’re a strong person, Ryan. Willpower, you know? You have that.”

No, he really didn’t.

“Is the therapy helping?”

Ryan shrugged. The therapy wasn’t bad, but he didn’t feel like he was making huge revelations either. Except for the part where he was gay. He winced internally. It didn’t count as a revelation because he had known it. He had known it since he was fucking fourteen, and here he was, eight years later, coming to terms with it. He had tried being bisexual, he really had. He had slept with women, and it had felt as unnatural and disgusting every time.

Gay. God, the word sounded ugly. And he was it.

There was no point in telling Matt. Matt knew. She had unintentionally been the first person he had ever told, so there was no coming out party to be had here.

Ryan was dealing with a lot of shit. He’d never have kids. He didn’t necessarily want to have kids, but it was like someone was telling him he couldn’t have them, and that was what upset him. He’d never get married either, and he’d be discriminated against. People would frown to see him and a boyfriend walk down the street hand in hand. He was unnatural. He’d be seen as Ryan, the gay guy.

“The therapy, well. Yeah, I suppose it helps and stuff. Dr. Harris is a smart woman; she gets some things,” he said vaguely.

Dr. Harris had said that it might be unwise for Ryan to do a big public announcement because he was in a fragile state. Instead, it was best to tell the people closest to him, those he himself wanted to know. Ryan’s sexuality, after all, wasn’t really anyone else’s business, and therefore, he should be the one in control of the information. Perhaps start with his parents.

His parents? Yeah, not happening. They would cry and shout at each other as they tried to figure out which one of them had made him gay.

“Hey,” Brendon’s voice came, and Ryan looked to the door so fast that he was surprised his neck didn’t break. He knew a stupid grin adorned his face.

“Bren, hi!”

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all,” Ryan said, turning back to Matt and giving her a look.

Matt stood up, gathering her belongings. “Well, I better go! Have that lab report to write up!”

Ryan realised that he was so stereotypically gay it was a surprise people hadn’t called him out on it yet. One of his best friends was female – check. He had a crush on a male friend he had no hope of obtaining – check. His life was a bad youth novel.

Ryan wondered if Matt knew about Brendon, not the part where they fucked but the part where Ryan… well. He doubted it, but she probably had a hunch as she was quick enough to leave. Brendon closed the door after her and grinned. “You don’t look like a zombie anymore.”

“I looked like a zombie?”

“Honestly, dude? You looked like one of those people on antidrug campaigns. Sunken eyes, pale skin, all that shit,” Brendon said and took the chair Matt had previously been sitting on. He picked up the magazine from the chair, and Ryan noticed that Matt had forgotten People. Brendon’s expression fell slightly.

“So, Spencer and Jenny?” Ryan asked.

Brendon shook his head, dropping the magazine on the floor. “Don’t ask me, I don’t fucking know. Spencer hasn’t spent the night home in three nights,” he spat.

“You sound jealous,” Ryan muttered.

Brendon laughed loudly. “What? No. I just – Well, I don’t think she’s genuine, that’s all. But whatever, not my life. Whatever. Spencer can do what the hell he wants.” Brendon rubbed the tips of his fingers against his temples before changing the subject. “So! How are you?”

“I’m getting out by the end of the week.”

Brendon started beaming. “Really? Dude, that is so awesome! Thank god!” Brendon shot up and launched over to give Ryan a big hug. Ryan’s heart swell up, leaving his chest feeling constricted and too small for the emotion spreading in him. Brendon pulled back and grinned down at him. “I’ve missed having you around, you asshole.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “They are trying to convince me to stay, saying it’s far too early and I’ll relapse, blah, blah. But they can’t force me either. I mean, I still have to go to extensive therapy and what not, but I’ve been here for…”

“Seventeen days.”

Ryan could feel the smile spreading on his face. “Seventeen days, yeah.”

Brendon had kept count.

Brendon sat back down. “Don’t worry about people, right? We’ll go clubbing, show people nothing’s changed.”

“Dr. Harris said that it’s probably better for me to, like, avoid temptation. I always used to do coke when we’d go out so that might not be the best idea,” Ryan explained. He wanted his old life back, he did, but he had gone seventeen days of being told that cocaine did not make him happy, cocaine could _not_ make him happy, and a few days ago, it had occurred to him that he had nearly died because of the drug, and he had felt ashamed. He didn’t want to tell Brendon that, though.

“Wow,” Brendon smiled. “This is, like, a whole new Ryan! I’m impressed, I really am.”

“Do you like the new Ryan?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Of course I do! We don’t have to go clubbing. We’ll just go shopping, and oh dude, I’ll take you out for dinner.”

“What? Like a date?”

Brendon laughed. “You wish.”

Yeah. He actually did.

Brendon talked about what he had been up to, and Ryan kept telling himself to spit it out. It seemed logical to start with Brendon, but it pissed him off to have to do it at all.

God, this fucking sucked.

Brendon had picked up Fante’s _Ask the Dust_ , reading the inscription inside as he asked, “Who the hell’s Bill?”

“Brendon, I need to tell you something,” he said in a serious tone, and Brendon reluctantly put down the book William had given him. Brendon nodded, indicating he was listening. Ryan shifted uncomfortably. “With the extensive therapy and all, I guess I’ve been doing some soul searching. And I’ve come to terms with some things about me that no one… that no one really knows.”

“Okay,” Brendon nodded patiently.

Ryan’s hands shook. Fuck, he was weak. Brendon would call him a fag and then just leave. When he had used coke, he hadn’t needed to deal with this shit. He missed that.

“There’s no easy way of saying this,” Ryan said, sucking in his lower lip, and Brendon’s brows furrowed. “The thing is that… Look. This changes nothing, right? I’m not someone you’ve never met because of this. God-fucking-dammit,” he groaned, briefly pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, and he had never despised himself as much.

He lowered his hands, and Brendon was staring at him with a curious expression.

“I’m gay,” he shrugged like he didn’t give a fuck about it. He lifted his hands in a ‘who would’ve guessed?’ gesture.

“You’re… You’re gay?” Brendon repeated, and Ryan nodded. His heart was pounding wildly, but he tried not to show it. He tried to remain expressionless. “You’re not gay!” Brendon laughed.

Ryan scratched himself behind his ear, trying not to sound annoyed. “No, um, I actually kind of am.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Dude, I would have to use both of my hands to list the women I know you’ve fucked.”

“Women I _claimed_ I fucked,” Ryan corrected silently. He averted his gaze because not only was he gay, he was also a liar. “I’ve known for a while, actually. But, you know… never got around to, like… It doesn’t matter. Like, whatever. It really doesn’t matter.”

He kept his eyes on Brendon’s shoes, one green Converse shoe, the other black, and Brendon said nothing. For a long, long time, Brendon said nothing, but Ryan could feel Brendon’s consuming gaze on him.

Eventually, Brendon said, “Wow. So… I mean. Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” Brendon sighed, and it wasn’t a happy or a relieved sigh. It was a troubled one. Ryan looked at Brendon who was leaning back in the chair, looking extremely confused.

“It’s not like it actually changes anything,” he scoffed, but it was a failed attempt to cover up that he hoped to god it didn’t change anything.

“Yeah,” Brendon said, but his voice was uncertain.

It _did_ change things. Ryan wasn’t saying that he wanted to fuck men; he was saying he wanted to love them. That was the difference, and even Brendon must have realised it.

Spencer and Brendon slept with guys for the sex. Ryan doubted that either one of them had ever considered another man as anything more than a way of getting off.

But maybe Ryan wanted all the romantic crap. Maybe he wanted lazy morning sex, breakfast in bed, pets substituting the lack of children and infinite engagements in hopes of legalised civil unions. Maybe he wanted to kiss a boy on the mouth and tell him that he loved him.

Ryan couldn’t look into Brendon’s brown eyes to see all the things he would never get.

“How long have you known?”

“It was a gradual realisation, I suppose,” Ryan shrugged. Brendon wasn’t angry. Ryan was terrified of being labelled. There was more to him than his sexual preference.

“Did you know when, like, you and me first… you know, began fooling around?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe,” he said and scratched his nose. The real answer, Ryan knew, was that he had been fine as a closet gay until he had fallen in love. That’s when the problems had come. “Anyway, I wanted you to know. The shrink said it’d be good for me to, like, get it off my chest and shit.”

“That’s kinda… wow, you know?” Brendon said, nodding, and Ryan forced himself to finally look at Brendon. Brendon looked shocked. Ryan wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing. “Our friends are gonna have a field day over it,” Brendon said.

“Yeah,” Ryan sighed. He was going to be labelled and ridiculed.

Brendon’s knee kept bouncing. “And nothing is... nothing is different, or... I mean, well –”

“I’m still me,” Ryan stated.

Brendon forced a smile. “Cool. Um. So are you looking for a boyfriend?”

Ryan froze slightly, trying to figure out what Brendon was asking him. Brendon was not asking to be boyfriends, of course not, but it could be a loaded question. What if, in some universe, Brendon saw Ryan’s confession as a way of figuring out if there was a chance there?

Ryan abandoned the thought instantly. No. Brendon was the guy who was always telling him not to be affectionate with him in public.

Ryan decided to laugh. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I suddenly want a meaningful relationship.”

Brendon’s face relaxed slightly. “Of course.”

Maybe he should talk to Dr. Harris about his constant lying before leaving the private clinic.

“Anyway, I want to tell people on my own terms. So far, you and Matt are the only people who know.”

“You’re gonna tell the gang, right?”

Fuck the gang. It was nothing more than four assholes hanging out with each other because hanging out with normal people would make them realise the extent of their assholeness. It was nice to think they were so superior, it was lovely to think it, and Ryan knew he harboured that belief more than the rest of them did. And he knew that the gang had been here for him, had made up around eighty-five percent of his visitors. He knew Spencer, Jon and Brendon were the best friends he could get but… this was different. He trusted Brendon, even if Brendon unknowingly broke his heart every fucking day. Jon was the homophobe straight guy, and Ryan didn’t want to tell him. Spencer might be sympathetic, but then again might start asking why Ryan didn’t have a lisp or a limp wrist to accompany his movements.

Their gang was based on similarity. Money, fame, being envied, being free, being adored. Fucking people. Partying. And suddenly, having one of them being the token gay kid? No. It just didn’t fit.

“I’ll tell Jon and Spencer some time. But for now, could you not tell them?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you want.”

Ryan nodded, and Brendon’s knee was bouncing nervously. Brendon still looked shocked, and Ryan figured he would have to get used to that reaction even if he even considered being gay and sticking to their circles.

“You’re weirded out,” he said finally.

“No, I –”

“Yes, you are,” Ryan said. He wasn’t offended, just annoyed. He could read Brendon a lot better than Brendon thought.

“I’ve always known you like guys. Well, duh,” he said and pointed at himself. It wasn’t an indication that Brendon was bisexual, god forbid Brendon admitting even that, but rather that Brendon liked cock just as much as any of the more liberal guys in their circles. Brendon must have thought Ryan had been one of those ‘fuck anything that moves’ guys. Ryan had never been that. “I just didn’t know that you, um… like guys _that_ much.”

“Well, I do.”

Brendon still looked thrown off balance. “Right.”

“Right.”

Ryan looked out of the window, trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence between him and the man he was madly in love with.

His new life didn’t feel very glamorous yet.

* * *

“You’re quiet,” Tom observed, and Brendon looked ahead of himself to see Tom having turned around to look to the back of the limo. He only shrugged and said nothing. They were stuck in traffic, and Ryan was _gay_. “What’s on your mind, star eyes?”

Brendon sighed and closed his eyes. Ryan was gay. Ryan was a homosexual. He never would have guessed it, not in a million, trillion years.

And Bill. Who the hell was this Bill giving Ryan books? Brendon didn’t know anyone named that.

“Nothing, man. Life is just weird right now,” he muttered. “How are things with the girl? Sapphire. What was her real name again?”

“Elise. Such a beautiful name,” Tom said with a dreamy sigh. “I don’t know, man. I think she likes me, but I don’t know. I feel like she’s not letting me in, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Brendon nodded. He had considered Ryan one of his best friends for years, and Ryan had never even said that he thought he might’ve been gay. Brendon felt insulted as well as fucking shocked.

Tom’s phone started ringing, and he answered it instantly with, “Mr. Smith, sir.”

Spencer. Brendon groaned inwardly. Fucking Spencer. He listened to Tom’s half of the conversation, and soon enough, Tom was taking a right to head to Hilton to pick up Spencer, seeing as it was only a small detour.

Ryan was gay, and Spencer was an asshole. Jon was the only normal one of the four of them, well, apart from Brendon.

The limousine stopped outside the hotel, and Tom hurried out to open the back door. Spencer had sunglasses over his eyes and a thick winter jacket wrapped around him as he slid into the backseat next to Brendon. Brendon heard someone call Spencer’s name and recognised flashes of cameras before the door slammed shut.

“Oh. Hey,” Spencer said, taking the sunglasses off and ruffling his hair that looked wet from a shower.

“Long time, no see,” Brendon said coldly, moving further from Spencer in the backseat. He could feel Spencer’s eyes lingering on him, but Spencer said nothing. They drove home in silence, and Brendon kept tapping his knee.

He might have told Spencer but not now. Ryan’s queerness was safe with him because he didn’t even want to talk to Spencer right now. It unnerved him a little, knowing Ryan looked at guys like that. Though, well, he looked at guys like that too, but not to the extent of waving a big homo flag.

David was home. David had been in California and then had dropped by Toronto for a conference, and they bumped into him in the foyer as David was heading out.

“Hi, Dad,” they greeted David in unison.

“Hey, boys! What you been up to, eh?” David asked and buttoned his coat. Brendon hadn’t seen his stepdad in at least two weeks.

“Not much,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, nothing special going on,” Spencer agreed.

“Good, good! Well, I will see you kids later!” David mused, heading for the door. Brendon doubted that David even remembered that Ryan was in rehab. It would have been polite to ask. “Oh, and Spencer? Heard about you and Jenny. Lovely girl. You hang onto her now,” David winked and was gone, probably pleased that Spencer was no longer bringing home random hook-ups.

Brendon seethed and stormed out of the foyer, feeling his blood boil. He could hear Spencer walking behind him, and once he got to the doors of their living room, he didn’t leave them open behind him but slammed them closed. He marched over to the couch and flopped down, arms folded.

Spencer entered the room, casually throwing his jacket on one of the chairs. “You’re being mature today,” he noted.

“Says the man who plays video games only when he thinks no one will catch him in the act.”

Spencer walked to the couch, stopping in front of Brendon. He cocked his hips and crossed his arms just like Brendon had. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop the passive-aggressive melodrama, okay?”

Brendon stood up, infuriated. “You haven’t been home in three fucking days, Spencer!”

“You disappear on me too sometimes. We don’t need to keep tabs on each other all the time.”

“But three days, Spence! Is that not a bit exaggerated?”

Spencer shrugged. “You knew where I was.”

“Yeah! With Jenny, yeah! Did you guys have a good time? Did you have fun catching up? Are you exhausted from all the amazing sex you’ve been having?” he all but spat.

“Yeah, pretty exhausted, thanks for asking.”

Brendon blinked. “You are _such_ an asshole.”

Spencer’s smirk faded. “Hey, come on, I was just kidding.”

“I’ll get back to you when it’s even remotely funny,” he declared and stormed back out, making sure to slam the door again. How could Spencer be so fucking cruel? Flaunt his thing with Jenny in front of his goddamned eyes? Brendon didn’t mind the sex. Spencer was free to have all the sex he wanted, but not with Jenny. Not the girl Brendon knew Spencer had once had at least some kind of feelings for.

Brendon wanted to punch something, and his punching bag took the form of the old piano they kept in the lounge. Brendon flipped up the cover and sat down, banging a few keys randomly. Fuck this shit. Spencer was the shittiest brother in the history of mankind, and Ryan was gay. Was there anyone he could trust anymore?

The only thing he knew how to play was _Für Elisei_. He tried it a few times, fucking up whenever he got past the first ten notes.

“I suck at this,” he groaned. He had no talent whatsoever. Jon was a musician, Ryan was, in theory at least, getting a degree in philosophy, and Spencer was really smart. Spencer read a lot. Brendon didn’t read anything. He was stupid and untalented.

“Keep playing!” came a loud command, and he swirled in the stool to see Grace walk further into the room. She was drunk. Of course she was fucking drunk.

Suddenly, Brendon wanted to smoothly glide past her and find Spencer. Okay, Spencer had been fucking Jenny, no big deal. It was fine. Grace was drunk. Brendon hated seeing her like that – he didn’t want to see it. Where was Spencer?

“Don’t look at me like that!” Grace said and stopped. “With- With judgement in your eyes! So I had a few drinks! I’m allowed to! You’ll understand when you’re older. Play for me, Brendon!”

“I don’t feel like it,” he said, standing up and planning a quick exit.

“Where are you going? Come here! Sit down with your mother, for Christ’s sake!” she snapped. Sometimes Grace was a sad drunk, sometimes a loud drunk, sometimes mildly aggressive, and this was a combination of all three. She grabbed Brendon by the arm and led them to the massive couch by the window. Brendon sat down, feeling nervous. Grace sat next to him, her brown eyes examining him up and down. “You look a lot like him,” she sighed, and clarified, “Boyd.”

Brendon looked more like his mother than his father, but nodded anyway. Grace had been married to Boyd Morris for five months at one point in the eighties, so Brendon wondered if she really remembered what Boyd looked like. Brendon saw his father only sometimes. Boyd would invite him down to Las Vegas and it’d be a good time, but they really had nothing at all in common. Boyd didn’t like Grace very much, something about Grace having slept with Boyd’s best friend when Brendon was two months old.

Grace shifted closer, running fingers through Brendon’s hair in what she probably thought was motherly affection.

“How are you really? You can tell your mother, you know. You can talk to me about what’s on your mind,” she said with unconvincing drunken nods.

“I’m fine, yeah,” Brendon forced out. He wanted to yell at her to stay the fuck away from him. A pathetic, pathetic mess. You would’ve thought that, by the time you were closing in on fifty, you’d be able to sort your shit out. Brendon couldn’t stop the glare he sent Grace.

“It’s so easy for you to judge,” Grace said in a sob-laced voice. “Oh, Brendon. Sometimes I wonder…”

Her voice faded away and, when Brendon stole another look at her, Grace was sobbing into her hands. Brendon bit his tongue. Spencer. Where was Spencer? He needed him right fucking now.

“You don’t know how hard it is!” Grace declared, and Brendon swallowed, eyes fixed on his clasped hands. “If you only knew how –”

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me!” he snapped and regretted it instantly. He would love to understand why his mother was a fucking mess when she had money, fame and a family. He would love to get it, but he didn’t want to. All that bullshit about him understanding when he was older? He hoped to god he would never understand her, understand that mindset.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Grace said, voice cracking and sounding nonsensical. Ryan had already bestowed a secret on Brendon; he wasn’t sure if he wanted another. “Do you know what day it is? Do you?”

“A Wednesday, I think.”

“No! Oh, Brendon!” she exclaimed, taking a hold of his chin and forcing him to look at her. She petted Brendon’s cheek and reeked of wine. “We- We never got the chance to tell you. You were so young, you two, we never got the chance,” she explained, constantly crying. “I’ll tell you now. You’re old enough, you’re…”

“What are you talking about?”

Grace swallowed and hung her head in what Brendon hoped was shame. “Spencer and you were going to have a… a little sister. I wanted to name her Diana. She would’ve been ten years old today. S-She would’ve –”

What?

Grace flung her arms around Brendon, but Brendon didn’t put his arms around her. He was frozen and stared at the top of her head.

Ten years. That meant that Grace had gotten pregnant some time after she married David. With… with Brendon’s half-sister. _Spencer’s_ half-sister.

Brendon got the sudden urge to vomit.

“Let go of me,” he said quickly, attempting to free himself.

No. No way. He had never heard a word of this. Surely, he would have noticed, surely he… He couldn’t remember. He had been a kid and at war with the new husband’s brat, Spencer. He hadn’t paid attention at the time. A miscarriage would have slid right past his young eyes.

“My little girl, my poor little girl! David doesn’t care that it’s our baby’s birthday! I bet she would’ve had the same eyes as you,” Grace cried into Brendon’s neck.

Or Spencer’s eyes. Maybe she would have had Spencer’s eyes. His sister. _Their_ sister. Would they have gotten along? Would Brendon have loved her? What would she have been like? Would Spencer have loved their sister too?

Oh god. Oh fuck.

“Let go!” Brendon said, struggling himself free of his mother’s hold. He got up, out of breath, and Grace stayed on the couch, crying into her hands hysterically. She was hysterical and drunk and pathetic.

Spencer didn’t know. Thank god that Spencer didn’t know.

“Is everything alright?” Lucía’s voice asked, and Brendon swirled around, relieved to see the maid hurrying towards them. Grace looked up and wailed louder, and the maid was by the couch, patting her back with a few, “There, there”s.

“Llevala a su cama,” Brendon said, wanting Grace to have her breakdown somewhere where it wouldn’t disturb him.

Lucía nodded, saying, “I’ll take you to get some sleep, Mrs. Urie!” Grace didn’t acknowledge her though her shoulders kept shaking. Lucía looked up at him worriedly. “¿Estás bien, pobrecito?”

“Sí, no te preocupes,” he said and forced a smile. This was nothing they hadn’t seen before.

He knew he was white as a sheet. His hands kept shaking as he rushed out of the room, heading down the hall to hide somewhere.

Diana Smith-Urie.

It was okay to love Spencer because they weren’t connected by blood. It was the fundamental block in Brendon’s arguments that it was okay to be in love with Spencer.

Spencer was in his room, music echoing through. It sounded like Radiohead again, Spencer still going through a massive Thom Yorke kick. Brendon didn’t knock on the door, didn’t go in to pick a fight or yell about Jenny because he was jealous, he was so fucking jealous that Spencer gave her what he never gave Brendon.

Spencer could never, ever find out that they had almost had a sister. Spencer could _never_ find out.

Grace was mourning over a dead baby, and Ryan was gay. Everyone was entrusting their secrets with Brendon, and he wondered what was next. What exactly was Spencer not telling him? Was Jon perhaps lying to him about something too?

He hid in his bed, trying not to think of Diana. It might have been cool to have a little sister. She might have been the coolest kid ever, and they could’ve gone to see Disney On Ice together and all that cool shit. It could have been nice. Then again, Diana could have been a spoiled little brat who was nothing but trouble.

And though her existence as a familial tie between Spencer and Brendon meant that Brendon was happy she had never been born, he gave himself a minute to mourn her. But just one brief minute.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm down. He had to call someone up, go clubbing, get drunk, fuck someone, something to keep his mind off of this. Off of Ryan and off of Spencer. Especially off of Spencer, and how Brendon’s heart ached at the thought of him.

On second thought, Diana was lucky. She was lucky never having to know the insanity of their fucked up joke of a family.  



	14. Comradeship

Comradeship.

It wasn’t easy to find someone who appreciated the same things Spencer did. Hell, having been brought up in the public eye, there were very few people who could relate to him. Jenny had been a big screen actress since she was seventeen so she only had five or so years on her back, but she understood. She understood the pressure, and she understood the sacrifices.

“New York pizza,” Jenny said gleefully, cheese dripping down her chin as she bounced on the hotel bed, making the mattress shake beneath them.

“You slob,” Spencer laughed from where he was lying down. Jenny wiped her chin, mouth full of food, before eagerly taking another bite of the pizza slice.

The pizza boxes lay open on Jenny’s hotel bed and the white sheets were getting grease stains on them, but they were having fun. The TV was showing Looney Tunes in the background, and it was three in the morning. The dress Jenny had worn to the premiere of her movie had been thrown over a chair, and she was in her matching underwear, long black hair pinned to the back of her head and mascara smeared on her cheeks.

They hadn’t fucked yet. Spencer had a feeling they wouldn’t either. Comradeship, that’s what it was all about.

“This pizza is so good, Spencer! I’m so full, oh my god,” Jenny practically moaned, falling back against the puffy pillows. Spencer had gone to the premiere too, though not as her date. They didn’t need to feed the rumour mills any more than they already had. Brendon had refused to come along.

“This pizza is fucking glorious,” he agreed. He was down to his boxers and t-shirt. It was comfortable like that.

“I’ve had fun on this trip. Thanks for that,” Jenny said.

“It’s been nice catching up,” he agreed. Jenny was leaving in the morning, and he was looking forward to it. If she stayed longer, they’d realise they really had nothing in common.

“I wish you lived in LA. You should move, you know. LA is where it’s all happening.”

“You can take the kid out of New York...”

“Suppose so,” Jenny sighed, and Spencer hoped she knew there was no actual chance of them dating again. “Last slice!” she declared, and Spencer perked up. They surged for the pizza box simultaneously, Jenny squealing and Spencer almost knocking her off the bed. “You’re no gentleman!” Jenny pouted when Spencer got there first, taking the slice and smirking.

“Yeah, well, you ate most of the first pizza,” he reasoned and stuffed it in.

Jenny got out of bed. “You’re going to become fat and ugly!”

“Likewise!” he called after her, and she laughed as she disappeared into the bathroom. Spencer was still chewing the last bite when he heard the sounds of Jenny vomiting. It was a familiar sound, one he had heard several times recently.

He swallowed the pizza and lay back down, wanting to give it a few minutes. Oh god, he had eaten so much. It was disgusting but still good.

Jenny wandered back out shortly after. “I left some laxative and Listerine on the counter for you,” she said before falling down on the bed. There was a whole system to being bulimic, and Jenny, if anyone, knew it.

Spencer could just admit that he had overeaten and work really hard at the gym tomorrow or compensate it with salad or something alike. He didn’t have to go and throw it up, he knew that. He knew that.

He got up and went to the bathroom where he stuck his fingers to his throat and felt better as the pizza left his system in a paste of stomach acids, cheese, tomato sauce and dough.

He couldn’t control the world, but he could control what went into his body. It was soothing.

Spencer thoroughly washed his mouth with Listerine before wandering back out. Jenny was lying on the bed, her scantily-clad body laid out. Her ribs were showing through her skin.

“Hey Spencer,” she almost purred. Spencer stopped by the end of the bed, seeing the way she had angled her body. It was an invitation.

“I’m really tired,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders and yawning.

“I’m leaving in just a few hours.”

“Just enough time to get some shut eye, right?”

Jenny moved to rest on her elbows. She had untied her hair, and it was falling around her like a black velvety curtain. Brendon’s hair wasn’t exactly black, but Jenny’s reminded him of Brendon sometimes.

“Spencer, don’t make a girl ask.”

No point in sparing her feelings now.

“Let’s not, Jen. It’ll make things weird, you know?” he said and, quick on his feet, added, “You deserve more than that.”

“I deserve a good fuck, that’s what I deserve.”

It’s not that Spencer didn’t want to fuck her senseless, he actually kind of did, but he just didn’t feel like it.

Jenny got on her hands and knees and crawled to the end of the bed. She sat on her knees and placed her hands on Spencer’s hips, looking up at him with big green eyes. “It’d be good,” she said quietly.

“I know it would,” he said apologetically, taking hold of her hands and removing them from his hips.

Jenny’s forehead wrinkled before she sighed and slumped down on the bed. “Well, I can’t remember the last time I got turned down. Have you met someone?”

“Not really.”

“Not really or no?”

“I’m single if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not what I’m asking,” Jenny said and got off the bed, marching to her opened suitcase and pulling out jeans. Great. Now, she was pissed off.

“Come on,” he said sweetly, walking over and sliding one arm around her, spreading his fingers on the smooth skin of her stomach. Jenny leaned against him, and Spencer pressed his nose to her neck. She smelled like a woman, and Spencer liked that. Jon, Spencer knew, had a seven cologne system, one for each weekday, and Spencer had already picked out Tuesdays and Fridays as his favourite days to have sex, knowing he’d get Chanel’s Allure and Kenzo’s Vintage Edition. Brendon had this unique smell that was just him, that could not be cloned in any way, and Spencer liked that too. Brendon smelled like home.

Spencer pressed a kiss to Jenny’s neck, and she sighed softly.

Spencer knew it wasn’t a good idea.

His fingers danced over her stomach, heading south, and Jenny sucked in a breath when his hand slid inside her laced panties. She was wet already. Jenny turned around and attacked his mouth, opening up so easily.

Jenny had been right: it was good sex. They got on the bed, needing to do very little foreplay or undressing. She was really into kissing, always had been. All her gasps and moans were hushed by their wet lips as they moved together. Spencer liked the simplicity of sleeping with women: you didn’t need lube, you didn’t need stretching, you didn’t need to think about aiming for the prostate or jerking them off. All he had to do was to make sure his pelvic bone rubbed her clit on the thrusts, and she was like melted butter.

Her fingernails scratched his back, and Spencer enjoyed the feel of her warmth around his cock. His mind wandered to other places, other rooms, other people. The TV was still on, and in the background, Bugs Bunny asked, “What’s up, Doc?”

“Spencer, oh my god, oh my god,” Jenny panted, and he leaned down to suck in a hardened nipple. Jenny’s back arched, her legs wrapping around him greedily. “Harder, oh god, oh _god_ –”

When she came, Spencer stopped. His back was sweaty from the work, he was breathing in through his nose. Jenny’s muscles vibrated around him, and Spencer bit his lower lip to muffle a moan.

Jenny relaxed against the mattress, pupils blown. “Did you…?” she asked uncertainly.

“No. I’m good, though, yeah.”

He pulled out. Jenny stared at him as he pulled off the condom, nothing but a bit of pre-come inside the tip.

“Do you want me to blow you?” she asked, and Spencer wanted to say that he had been accepting too many random blowjob offers recently. And besides, Spencer knew Jenny could deepthroat without gagging, but he would want her to gag and be awkward about it, use too much spit like Jon had, because Jon hadn’t had a fucking clue, and Spencer? He couldn’t remember the last time he had been that turned on.

“Really, I’m fine,” Spencer declined. He had fucked her, she had gotten off. Could she stop being so pushy now?

Jenny looked confused, and Spencer went for a shower. He washed her off him, feeling tired and worn out. He towelled himself dry and walked back out to find Jenny wrapped around in a sheet, watching TV.

“Daffy Duck was always my favourite,” she said.

Spencer pulled on his boxers and jeans. “Mine was the Road Runner.”

“Pfft, that one sucked.”

“And I thought the duck’s lisp was fucking annoying,” he countered. Jenny looked like she wanted to say something but bit her tongue instead.

Spencer knew it was best to leave, and Jenny seemed to agree. He kissed her on the cheek, and she said he should call her if he found himself in LA. Spencer said she should do the same when in NY.

Comradeship only worked so far. Then you had to acknowledge you wanted different things and that you were going to different directions. Jenny had been convenient a year or so before. Now it was just a bit weird.

When she closed the door, Spencer knew they would only miss having someone to throw up with.

It was a bit after four AM, but Spencer didn’t feel tired. He didn’t want to deal with Brendon, didn’t want to deal with Brendon’s childish jealousy when it came to Jenny. He wasn’t hard anymore but was still feeling horny, and in the lobby of the hotel, he decided to call Jon.

Four seventeen in the morning, and Jon picked up on the third ring, noise pushing through. “Spence, hey!”

“I want to hang out.”

“Yeah, sounds great! I’m out with the guys. We’re at this live music bar. Jazz, man. Jazz drummers are the best drummers in the world,” Jon explained, and Spencer wondered why he never minded Jon being drunk though he despised Grace in the same state. He didn’t like Brendon drunk either. On Jon, though, it was okay.

Jon gave the address of the bar, and Spencer took a taxi to the Village. The place was only a few blocks from where Jon lived, in a tiny basement where the air smelled of sweat, and on stage, some guy in a suit was playing upright bass next to a saxophonist and a pianist. Jon’s crowd was easy to find, a bunch of twenty-somethings in band t-shirts, cut jeans and messy hair occupying a table with dozens of empty glasses on it, moving to the music like they were feeling it or some shit.

“Hey,” Spencer said when he got to the table.

Jon was quick to turn his head and beam up at him. “Hey! Dude, take the sunglasses off. Can you even see anything? It’s dark as it is!”

Spencer took the sunglasses off, and Jon snaked a finger through one of his belt loops, pulling him closer. “Guys, you know Spencer, right?” Jon said, pointing back and forth, hand sliding to the small of Spencer’s back. “These are Andy, Travis, Joe and Alex!”

Spencer exchanged nods, and Jon hurried to steal him a chair from the table next to theirs. He sat between Alex and Jon, trying to understand what exactly made jazz so interesting. Jon said that he had spent all day in the practice space with the guys, working on the material for his new album. “You look good, by the way,” Jon said brightly before taking another sip of the whisky.

“Hey,” Joe said from across the table. “Aren’t you fucking Jenny Tyron?”

Spencer resorted to shrugging. “Sometimes.”

“Fucking awesome, man! That is fucking awesome! I jerk off to her,” he informed Spencer, and at least that made one of them. The guys weren’t star struck by Spencer; it would be uncool for them to be star struck (with the exception of Jeff Mangum, Brian Eno or some other guy Jon loved to fanboy over). Jon’s eyes lingered on Spencer before he turned to clap loudly as the band that finished the song. Travis was whistling.

Jon convinced Spencer to get some whisky, and Spencer downed it in one go. Jon gasped in horror. “You sip it slowly! Enjoy it! That whisky was fifteen years old!”

“Explains the horrible taste, then,” Spencer concluded. Their companions were paying little attention to them, and Spencer kept catching himself staring at Jon or vice versa. Spencer looked away. “Let’s get out of here,” he said finally.

Jon got up instantly. “Yo, we’re going. I’ll call you about those drum tracks, and I’ll see you tomorrow, give my love to Bell,” Jon listed, and he was squeezing hands with them in some sign of friendliness – comradeship – and Spencer had his sunglasses back on when they walked up the stairs to get back out.

What did he and Jon have in common, really? Except for the wealth and being spoiled and used to people bending to their every whim. Jon loved music, and Spencer knew nothing about Jon’s scene. He thought that Smashing Pumpkins was still the band kids were into. He, well, apart from being a secret Late Antiquity geek, didn’t have that many interests. What did they have in common?

“Did you go to that premiere?” Jon asked as they began walking down the street. Neither one of them had specified where they were going, but Spencer knew that it was obvious for them both.

“Yeah. Shit movie, but it will make loads at the box office.”

Jon laughed, breath rising into the cold air. “And Jenny?”

“Will be on a plane to LA soon enough.”

Jon nodded and focused on digging his keys out of his pocket. They got to Jon’s in silence, and Spencer kept biting the inside of his cheek as Jon fumbled with the lock of his place. “A bit of a mess right now,” he explained apologetically.

Ryan overdosing had broken their routine, perhaps because they were both shocked to realise that people were dying around them, and they were just doing their own twisted sex thing behind everyone’s backs. But Ryan was getting out now, and it would all be back to normal. It had been a long time since they had last fucked, and Spencer’s insides clutched together in excitement, his skin suddenly feeling electric. Spencer didn’t need to explain or justify what he did with Jon, and he liked that.

They both headed for the bedroom, and Jon gathered all the papers and notes littering the bed as Spencer easily took his clothes off a second time in just a few hours.

“Making music is messy,” Jon chuckled, a bit tipsy but not overly so, not like he had been when he had blown Spencer on Valentine’s Day. Spencer was in his underwear by the time Jon unfinished clearing up the bed. Jon’s eyes lingered on him, and the stare was too intense.

“So…” Spencer began to aid it along a little.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Spencer glanced down, pleased. “Have I?” He wasn’t trying to lose weight, not anymore. He was mostly focused on maintaining status quo. Still, though, it didn’t hurt to lose a bit.

Jon walked over, nodding. “And the bruises are almost gone now too. Those… those big bruises on your ribs. You gonna tell me how you got those?”

“I really don’t know,” he lied. He had given Skinny Jon’s ten grand, and he still owed the guy some. Still, ten grand was plenty, and he was relatively sure Skinny wouldn’t bother him for a while.

“’Kay,” Jon said, his fingers moving across Spencer’s stomach, sliding down and snaking beneath the elastic of Spencer’s boxers, greedily wrapping around his cock. Spencer took in a sharp breath, forcing himself not to moan. He was already hard.

Jon leaned in close to his ear. “I’m gonna push you on your stomach and handcuff you to the headboard. I’m gonna tie your legs to the bedposts, to keep them far, far apart, have you all spread out for me. I’m gonna fuck you with my fingers, then with a dildo, and then with my cock. And you’re not allowed to come until I fucking tell you to. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” he exhaled shakily.

“And you spend the night. For convenience.” Jon’s lips were brushing against his earlobe, voice low and demanding. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed.

Jon pulled his hand from Spencer’s boxers, snapping Spencer’s wrists and shoving Spencer back until he landed on Jon’s bed.

Comradeship. What he and Jon had in common was each other, and it was all they needed.

* * *

The only time Jon had had a long-term girlfriend had been in high school, and their parents certainly hadn’t let them have sleepovers. They had usually had sex in the back of Jon’s car, once on Jon’s parents’ bed, giggling and feeling rebellious when his dad had been attending the PGA European Tour with his mother.

Waking up next to Spencer was weird, but Jon wasn’t sure if it was because of Spencer or because of the presence of _someone_ in his bed. Spencer was still fast asleep, lips slightly parted and brows furrowed like he was having some particularly perplexing dream. Jon yawned and stretched under the covers on his side of the bed. He scratched his stomach through the t-shirt (they hadn’t slept naked, after all, they both had pulled boxers and shirts back on) and forced himself out of bed. Spencer probably needed some rest. He might have worn out Spencer by deciding that they really needed to fuck twice, but it wasn’t his fault that it had been so ridiculously long since the last time.

Spencer’s wrists were decorated with red circles from the handcuffs. Now those were bruises Jon knew the origin of, bruises that turned him on. He didn’t know about those other kind of bruises, and he didn’t want to know anyway. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

He didn’t know what time it was until he sauntered into the kitchen after showering, the digital screen of the microwave informing him it was 12:47. Shit. He was late.

He finished eating a banana as he went back to the bedroom, pulling the curtains aside and instantly earning a groan from Spencer’s direction.

“Get up, you whore,” he said, and Spencer lifted a middle finger his way. “I gotta go soon. I’ve got a practice space booked.”

“Then go,” Spencer said and rolled around tighter in the sheets that really, really needed to be washed.

Jon rolled his eyes and started getting ready to go. He packed up his eight-track and laptop, snatching wires from the floor before heading for the music room to grab more stuff. He ended up taking his D-42 and Les Paul, despite knowing that there would be guitars available because he wanted his own. He always named his guitars after girls he had found memorable. He wondered if he could name the next guitar Spencer. That could be a girl’s name, couldn’t it?

He left his bags in the living room and went in to try and get Spencer out of bed. “Seriously,” he told Spencer, who grunted. “You’re asking for it,” he said, taking hold of the corner of the duvet and pulling it off his visitor. Spencer scrambled to catch the other end of the duvet just in time, pulling it back.

“My god, you’re worse than an attention deprived Brendon! Let a man sleep!” Spencer protested and vigorously attempted to get the duvet back.

“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?” Jon asked, pulling the other way.

“Yes,” Spencer snapped, bed hair sticking out everywhere, and he gave the duvet a strong tug, causing Jon to fall back on the bed, his elbow hitting Spencer somewhere in the ribs.

“Ow! Get off me!” Spencer protested, shoving Jon who couldn’t help but laugh as he rolled onto his back next to Spencer. Spencer was out of breath and staring at the ceiling, expression still sleepy. “Man, if this is how you treat all the people you share your bed with, I am so –”

“Well, excuse me,” Jon said and made sure his voice contained the obvious rolling of his eyes. “I can’t even remember the last time I let someone sleep in my bed. But do you thank me for my hospitality? No, you do not.”

Spencer snorted. “You fuck people all the time, Jon.”

Jon rose to his elbows, looking at Spencer’s attempts at pulling the rest of the duvet from under him. “I haven’t really been fucking anyone other than you, actually.”

Spencer stopped his retrieving duvet escapade for a split-second, long enough for Jon to notice how surprised Spencer looked. “Yeah, well… maybe you should. Might make you more polite in the morning-afters, actually, and would you give me the duvet back? Jesus!”

Jon got off the bed, letting Spencer curl up under the covers again. “There’s cereal in the kitchen, milk in the fridge…”

“You going?”

“Yeah.”

“I can show myself out.”

“Okay,” Jon nodded, biting his bottom lip. He was by the bedroom door when he stopped. “Hey, Spence?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you fuck Jenny Tyron last night?”

Jon counted to four until Spencer said, “Yeah.”

Jon didn’t know whether to say, ‘Good for you,’ ‘I thought so,’ or ‘Right,’ so he said nothing. He closed the door and grabbed the gig bags in the living room, hauling a guitar on each shoulder and grabbing his backpack with the other equipment before heading out.

The air was crisp and the day was in full swing. Lunch hour. It took Jon ten minutes to hail a taxi, and he carefully slid the guitars into the backseat before getting in himself. He kept thinking of Spencer Smith sleeping in his bed, the Spencer Smith that the cameras and teenage girls adored. The Spencer Smith that slept with Hollywood stars.

Andy was already in the soundproofed practice space when Jon got there. “Sorry I’m late,” Jon said, dumping his guitars and bags on one of the couches. It was a huge room with wires zigzagging over the mismatching carpets, connecting amps to basses and guitars and even to that kick ass electric cello.

“Oh, don’t mind me. Just your album we’re working on. You’re smiley today,” Andy commented from behind the drum kit and pushed his glasses up his nose before doing a quick progression that was probably from whatever metal song Andy had declared the best in the world right then.

“I figured out that bridge part for the snow song,” Jon said, getting out his D-42, also known as Rachel, who Jon had had a fling with on his first ever tour. She had been the drummer of the band he had been touring with. He grabbed a stool and started humming the snow song, the lyrics still going through changes, and skipped ahead to the so-called bridge part (his songs didn’t follow the verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus method, but rather had constructions such as A B C A D B E C F. If Jon had heard the entire song in the first thirty seconds, he didn’t see the song as having anything exciting to offer him anymore).

“That’s good, I like that,” Andy agreed. “You spent hours trying to perfect it yesterday, when did you do this? Do you work in your sleep?”

“Probably,” Jon laughed. “Just needed that bit of inspiration.”

They began throwing in ideas, Jon calling all the shots as it was, after all, his music. He opened up his laptop and turned on all the expensive music equipment he had on there, opening files to different guitar layers for different tracks.

“I feel, like, my first album was kind of soul searching, right? I want to have more answers this time, if that makes sense. I want the music to convey that I’m not fucking twenty like I was when I wrote that shit,” he explained passionately. “And I –”

His phone began ringing, and Andy all but gasped, throwing his hands in the air. “You didn’t turn it off!”

“Sorry,” Jon said sheepishly, bringing the phone to his ear when he saw the caller ID. “Yeah?”

“Where do you keep bowls?” Spencer’s voice asked. At least he wasn’t still sleeping, then.

“Bowls? I think they’re in the cupboard above the dish washer.”

He heard clinging and a, “Gotcha. Also, full fat milk? That’s like cream. Don’t you have any non-fat milk?”

“No. God, you’re picky. Don’t make a mess.”

“You’re a slob, you know that? I possibly couldn’t make this kitchen any –”

“Yeah, yeah. Are you busy tonight?” Jon asked hopefully.

“Yeah. There’s a party I’ve been invited to, you might like it. Good PR, there’ll be a red carpet and everything. Wanna go?”

“Sure.”

“You got a suit?”

“Is it formal? I hate formal parties, you know that,” Jon said disdainfully.

“Semi-formal. Put on that corduroy vest of yours, you look good in it. And come over tonight, I have to approve of you first.”

“One presentable Jon Walker in a corduroy vest coming right up.”

Spencer laughed. “That’s what I like to hear. Later, Jonathan.”

Jon grinned as he hung up and switched off the phone.

“I thought we’d be pulling an all-nighter,” Andy remarked.

“Oh,” Jon said in realisation. “Well, I’ll just book this place for next week too. That sort of, just, well…” he muttered.

“Your album,” Andy said again. After a beat, he added, “So who was that?”

“Spencer. He came by the club last night?”

“Oh, right. The celebrity,” Andy said a bit mockingly, but fair enough since Spencer didn’t do anything. Spencer wasn’t an actor or a musician, and he wasn’t on reality TV (actually, Spencer sort of had been when David had been doing his plastic surgery reality TV shit. Spencer had made a few cameos by accidentally having walked into wherever they were shooting. Jon knew Spencer had hated David for doing that show). Jon had heard that in Japan there were celebrities who were famous for being famous, and Spencer was like that except that his celebrity parents obviously had an impact on it.

“So what’s the deal there?” Andy asked, now having a Stratocaster on his lap and picking the intro to Street Spirit.

“What do you mean?” Jon frowned, looking down at his acoustic.

Andy let out an uncomfortable laugh, shrugged and muttered, “Never mind.”

Jon lifted his head, a sudden tightening feeling inside his chest. “No. What do you mean?”

Andy stopped and lifted an eyebrow at him. “Jon, man, I’ve known you for a couple of years now. I don’t have to spell this out to you, do I?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” he said, shaking his head and smiling like Andy was amusing him.

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

Jon broke the E string, the steel snapping loose wildly with a loud bang, and the whip of the string smacked against his open palm, stinging. Jon winced and recoiled as he said something along the lines of, “Oh, uh, I-I, uh. What?” He tried to sound insulted.

“The art of deduction. You two couldn’t take your eyes off of each other at the club last night, you left together, then you show up late this morning and you’ve so fucking obviously gotten laid, and then Spencer calls to ask you where you keep your dishes, so he spent the night at your place. Then you molest your guitar, stutter and blush. You’re fucking him,” Andy said matter-of-factly, not stopping from picking the strings.

Jon laughed loudly. “That! That is so, like, so completely –”

“Spot on?” Andy suggested with an evil smile.

“Are you high? What the fuck?” Jon said disbelievingly, shaking his head and looking down at his acoustic. “Damn string broke…” Jon hurried over to the couch to find spare strings.

“I’m not judging, man. I mean, do you not think that I am surprised that you, my good friend Jon, never told me you swung both ways? I am surprised, very much so. You could say I am flabbergasted, as a matter of fact.”

Jon found the strings and wire cutters, shaking his head further and mumbling, “What? Like, what? Absurd, totally… like…”

“Do you realise that you haven’t even told me I’m wrong about this? You’re fucking Spencer Smith, and I know it. I’m not gonna go tell anyone, not my business. Just fucking chill, man.”

Jon could feel heat rise up to his cheeks as he marched back over, unrolling the broken string from around the tuning peg. He rubbed his nose as he sat back down, using the wire cutters to pull out the bridge pin and throwing the string remains on the floor before sliding the new one in place. He knew Andy was waiting for him to say something.

“It’s just sex,” he burst out, his tone defensive and nervous.

“Okay,” Andy nodded like he was trying to soothe a cornered animal.

“We’re not seeing each other or anything. We just fuck,” he explained, ignoring his newfound dislike of Jenny Tyron, ignoring a drunken revelation in a club bathroom stall after sucking Spencer off, and definitely ignoring the Valentine’s Day gifts he was not buying Spencer.

“Have you always been bi? Because this is news to me.”

“I’m not, like, I’m not bi or anything. I fuck just one guy, right?” he explained, now tuning the string.

“Like specified gayness?”

Jon looked up in disbelief. “Am I the only person whose standard vocabulary excludes the term specified gayness?” Andy shrugged, and Jon went back to tuning to avoid eye contact. “There are no feelings or anything. Just sex.”

“With the guy who is fucking Jenny Tyron. Man, that’s as close to her as either one of us is ever gonna get,” Andy sighed wistfully, and Jon let out a small, desperate laugh. “How long have you guys been, you know…”

“Not long,” Jon shrugged, and it felt so fucking weird talking about it. “It just kind of happened. It’s a good time, a good, um, hobby.”

“I bet,” Andy grinned, and Jon shot him a glare. “Hey, at least I’m not asking which one of you bottoms!”

“Of course he bottoms!” Jon snapped instantly. “Do I _look_ like I enjoy a cock up my ass?” Andy eyed him up and down sceptically, and Jon let out a disbelieving gasp. “Hey thanks, way to emasculate me.”

“Don’t take it so seriously,” Andy sniggered, obviously enjoying Jon’s torment.

“Let’s just get back to the song,” Jon muttered, and Andy shrugged. Jon played the song with the new adjustments and said, “It sounds better now. And, you know, it’s like Jason and Ben, you know Jason and Ben, right? When I was on tour with them, they were totally fucking. Convenience, you know? Just sex. I was confused by it at the time, but now I totally get it. It doesn’t mean you’re gay if you see another guy as sexual release. Spencer and I, we’re totally on the same page with it, like Jason and Ben were. Just sex.”

“Um…” Andy began, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Did you hear that Ben left his girlfriend and moved in with Jason?”

“Okay, bad example. Very bad example.”

“Look, man, that’s fine. You’ve got a sex buddy, fantastic,” Andy shrugged. “But sex? It’s never _just_ sex. There is no such thing as no-strings-attached, emotionally void sex. Sure, people promise that kind of sex all the time, sure they do. But does it exist? Fuck no. Even feeling satisfied afterwards is an emotion in itself. Human psychology is complex, dude, sexual psychology too. We’re the only species that has sex for pleasure, well, apart from dolphins but I don’t wanna think about that,” Andy chuckled. “The hormones involved, the psychological process, I’ve read about this, it’s so complicated. Scientists don’t really have a damn clue what’s happening in the human brain when we fuck, but sex is never just sex, and any scientist, psychologist, or hell, anyone who has ever fucked will tell you that.” Andy took in a breath and turned to his guitar. “So, all I’m saying, Jon, is that you should’ve seen the grin on your face when Spencer came into the club last night.”

Jon swallowed something nonexistent down his throat. “Let’s just play the song,” he muttered. Andy nodded silently.

Jon felt uneasy in his own skin, fear and denial curling into a tight ball in his stomach, making him bite his lip in discomfort. He fucked up the chord progression, and Andy gave him a sympathetic look.  



	15. Good Ideas

Good ideas.

Jon had them often, mostly musically speaking, but also, in other forms: moving to New York, mixing red wine with Coke, deciding no longer to fantasize about Grace Urie. All pretty good ideas. This, too, seemed like a really good idea.

The blonde girl was called Leslie. The redhead was Sara. They were giggling, and Jon gave them a shy smile because they seemed to like that. Jon had had some wine at dinner, and he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t high. He kept telling himself he was, though, and that it was seriously affecting his judgement.

“Whose place is this?” he asked, his hands in theirs as they pulled him down the hallway of the apartment Jon had never been in.

“Mine,” the blonde one, Leslie, said, and she opened a door, the three of them entering a bedroom. It was a typical girl’s room with candles, clothes and clutter. Leslie lit up scented candles and put on music (Culture Club, was she kidding?), and Sara pulled Jon to the bed, giving him that mischievous grin she had been giving him the entire night.

They had approached him in the restaurant when Jon and the rest of the gang had been hanging out at the bar area after dinner. They had recognised him, had come over to talk about his music. They had flirted, and Spencer had just stood there, talking to Brendon and Ryan, disinterested. Jon had left with the girls when they all had left the place, and he highly doubted the rest of the gang had noticed him leaving their “Let’s celebrate Ryan getting out of rehab!” night.

Jon wondered where Spencer was, who he was with, doing what exactly.

He, though, was on his back on Leslie’s bed with Sara pressing against his side, her lips on his collarbone. Leslie was straddling his legs, her hands unbuckling his belt as she giggled. Jon wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t high, but the girls were inebriated.

“We’ve always thought you’re one of the hottest musicians ever,” Leslie said, and Sara nodded, her tongue moving over his Adam’s apple.

“Thanks,” Jon rasped, feeling his breathing getting heavier and heavier. Four hands on him were a lot; four hands tugging at his clothes were a hell of a lot. Leslie zipped him down, and Jon lifted his hips to help her get the jeans down his thighs.

“Oh my,” Leslie said, and Sara was quick to take a look downstairs.

Sara turned back to Jon, eyes grinning. “Well, there certainly is plenty of you to go around.”

Jon laughed and then moaned, because Leslie had taken his cock into her mouth. Sara proceeded to unbutton his shirt, leaving kisses on his chest.

It felt good to be touched. Seeing as Jon liked to tie down his partners most of the time, he didn’t get touched a lot. He didn’t get kissed or caressed, and he missed that sometimes. Sara slid the unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, and he pulled it off, Leslie tugging his jeans off even more, and then he was naked.

Sara giggled, Leslie giggled, and they both looked at him with wild, wide eyes that promised adventure.

Their eyes weren’t blue. Jon wished they had been.

It was a sensory overload, having two tongues on his cock. He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to blurt out a string of swear words. He propped himself on one elbow to watch, and Leslie was licking the underside of his cock while Sara was twirling her tongue around the head.

“Fuck,” he breathed and sucked in his lower lip, eyes fluttering shut. A warm mouth closed around the head, and he didn’t know whose mouth it was. He reached down, grabbing a handful of long hair, and he spread his legs, feeling the other pair of lips mouth his balls. He fell back on the bed, trying not to fucking come.

Spencer had never given him head. Spencer had the lips for it, though. Spencer had a beautifully shaped upper lip, and his lower lip was nice and full. Jon tightened the grip he hand on Leslie’s (Sara’s?) hair, pushing the mouth further down on his cock.

When the wet warmth around his cock disappeared, he opened his eyes. Sara had her hand around his length, and she was stroking him absently as she was focused on kissing Leslie. Jon had seen two girls kiss before but never like this. His cock twitched, of course it did: lesbian footage, right there next to his erection. Not only that but the girls had managed to shed some of their clothes, and Leslie’s pink nipples were in plain sight.

The girls pulled apart, mouth shiny with spit.

“Goddamn,” Jon smirked, trying to grin like he was in on the joke. Leslie and Sara giggled. Why? Jon wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe they were flattered.

Leslie got out condoms. They rolled one on Jon together, giving him long, seductive looks. Sara began to ride him, and as she did, Jon was permanently attached to Leslie’s mouth, enjoying the feel of tongue and tongue, lips on lips, saliva, every detail that came with it. Sara let out high-pitched moans, hips erratically bouncing as she moved on Jon’s cock.

Spencer had never ridden him either. God, he had to stop thinking about Spencer. He had to fucking stop.

He felt the physical pleasure but other than that… nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

“Stop,” he said, gasping in a breath. He lifted Sara off of him, and the girls looked confused. Jon was having his first ever threesome, and he needed to make the most out of this. “Go down on her,” he ordered Sara. Sara blinked, looking uncertain, and Jon wondered just how much girl-on-girl action these chicks had done before. “Eat her pussy,” he commanded, and Leslie, apparently more willing to go with the flow, spread her legs. Sara obliged.

Jon rolled a new condom on himself and positioned himself behind Sara. He grabbed her hips and pushed in, and Sara let out a muffled sound as Leslie bucked up to get more contact between Sara’s mouth and her groin.

People getting each other off. Three pairs of hands, three pairs of legs. As long as everyone was consenting, it was harmless. That’s what it was all about. _This_ was what sex was about.

Skin everywhere. Leslie and Sara didn’t look sexy; they just looked cheap. Leslie came, and Jon wondered what her mother would say to her now. Sara’s muscles squeezed around him, and yeah, god, that felt good.

Sara kept crying out, “Oh, oh, oh, _oh_ ,” every time Jon pushed in. Jon kneaded her ass, pulling the cheeks apart as he kept fucking her pussy. She came when Jon pushed a spit slicked finger in her ass. Sara collapsed on the bed, and Jon crawled on top of Leslie, who seemed ready for a second round. Her eyes weren’t blue.

Jon was horny but not overly sensitive, he could hold back an orgasm for quite some time if he had to, up to the point where his cock was fucking hurting, usually. But he was young and had superb stamina. Spencer appreciated that about him, Jon figured, or at least he had gathered that from the way Spencer’s body sometimes shook afterwards, the way Spencer had once said, “You can just keep going, can’t you?”, all awed and glowing from the orgasm. Jon remembered wanting to brush the wet bangs off of Spencer’s forehead. He remembered wanting Spencer to touch him, at least a little.

The girls still giggled. They moaned, switched places, positions, and Jon made them do things to each other he could see they weren’t comfortable with. He came. Leslie got out some weed, and Jon needed it, he fucking needed it. They shared a joint, the three of them, and Sara rested her head on Leslie’s shoulder.

“What do you guys do?” he asked.

“I’m in med school,” Leslie said. Jon was impressed.

Sara shrugged. “I’m a waitress.” Yeah, well, it figured…

“How do you know each other?”

“Sara’s boyfriend is an intern in the same hospital,” Leslie smiled.

Jon said, “I see.”

He kept looking at their bare breasts, the shameless exhibition of their body parts.

They fucked again, all three of them, one mass of bodies and fingernails and orifices, and one of them said, “Jon,” like they knew him at all, like they knew a fucking thing about him. They were strangers, complete strangers. These girls could die tomorrow, and it would not affect Jon one fucking bit.

Sometimes, it was uncoordinated, limbs knocking together, and Jon laughed under the influence of the pot. Leslie fell on Sara, laughing loudly, and when Jon kissed her, she tasted of Sara’s pussy.

Jon was having sex with two girls. He couldn’t get much straighter than that.

Human flesh could be warm or cold, red or pale. He saw it all: three still, living, human bodies tangling and sweating together, rubbing, touching and searching for release. It was physical, all those hands. Leslie moaned louder every time she came, Sara didn’t come quite as easily, but when she did, she shook like a leaf, grabbing onto Jon. Jon gave in, groaning and coming himself, thinking of things, people, a person.

Would the girls feel proud of this in the morning?

“I’m so sore,” Leslie laughed, and Sara collapsed next to her, sweaty and naked. The girls curled up together, yawning. Jon deposed of the condom, walking out to find the bathroom and take a leak. When he got back, the girls were asleep.

Jon’s brain slowed down. He closed his eyes and saw skin. He opened them and studied the two female figures.

He felt so fucking hollow.

Jon got dressed in the hallway, making sure to leave quietly. He hoped to god he would never see either one of those girls again. He hoped they would wake up in the morning and cry over their lost innocence. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would wake up and finger each other.

He got out of the building and held his stomach as he suddenly gagged. He coughed into his fist, his lungs being torn apart by some invisible force before he managed to catch his breath again. He was somewhere in Chelsea, and the streets were mostly empty. It was early still, not too late yet, but Jon wanted to hide.

A couple stood on the street corner in a tight embrace. Their breaths were rising into the air, and as Jon passed them, he heard them say, “But I don’t want to sleep without you.” “Don’t want to or can’t?” They laughed. “I can’t.” “I suppose I’m sold then.”

Jon felt like tapping their shoulders and saying, “I’m pretty sure I just made a straight girl go down on a chick, but she was drunk. She didn’t know what she was doing, and she had a boyfriend too. You two are fucking lucky, you don’t even know.”

He kept on walking. He didn’t want to take a taxi home; he wanted to walk. It was freezing, but he chose the physical numbness over the emotional numbness any fucking time. He could taste the girls on his tongue. He kept seeing flashbacks to tits and pussies and asses.

He sometimes called Spencer a whore or a slut, but it was tongue in cheek. It pissed Spencer off, and nothing was quite as cute as Spencer huffing about it. Jon rarely meant it when he used the word, perhaps with the exception of Sapphire. But right now, Jon wanted to scream, ‘WHORE! YOU FUCKING WHORE!’ at the top of his lungs, and he would have meant it. He was fucking cheap.

Partly, he hoped to find Spencer standing outside his building or outside his door, waiting, but he had no such luck. And besides, Jon didn’t want to right then. Spencer could fuck Jenny Tyron as well as him in one night, but Jon didn’t want to do the same.

When had sex become so meaningless?

Jon scrubbed himself clean in the shower and brushed his teeth twice. He had bite and nail marks on his chest, and he stared at himself in the mirror.

Spencer hadn’t called him either. No missed calls. Nothing.

The sheets of Jon’s bed, though, smelled of Spencer. They had come stains on them, but Jon hadn’t changed them. He slid between the covers, naked, and he curled up into a ball. His body was useless. He was nothing but an animal, spreading his seed like his instincts told him to. Such a primitive fucking being.

Jon called the only person he could think of. He called twice before getting a sleepy, “Hurley residence.”

“Andy, hey. It’s Jon. Sorry to call you this late.”

In the background, a female voice said, “Who is it?”

“Jon. Go back to sleep, baby.”

Jon’s bed was empty. No one there, no one to call endearing names. He sighed.

“It’s okay, man, not even two o’clock yet. What’s up?” Andy asked.

Jon had been meaning to do other things than have threesomes with strangers, than to become involved with Spencer. But he couldn’t remember those things anymore, those things he would have done and said before any of this.

Lately, he had been meaning to say that when he called Spencer a slut, his mind added _my_ before the word, and it was Jon’s way of calling Spencer something endearing. Not many would see it as flattering or as a compliment, but it was the best way Jon could express the heavy feeling inside his stomach, the warmth spreading in him, and the way he liked waking up next to Spencer in the morning.

“Christ, Andy,” Jon groaned into the phone and shielded his eyes. “I’m fucked.”

* * *

“After we’ve finished shopping, we should go for a drink or two,” Brendon suggested as he flipped through the shirt rack. He looked up, beaming at Ryan, who seemed uncomfortable and gazed around the Armani store. They were the only customers in the luxuriously furnished shop, and Brendon wondered why the service was slow. “They better bring us some champagne soon.”

Ryan examined his nails. “I told them not to.”

“What? Why the hell not?” Brendon frowned before realising that he had managed to fuck up – again. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Ryan shrugged. “Don’t apologise. Being clean is fucking boring.”

“Boring?” Brendon repeated in astonishment, pointing towards the counter where they had left all the shopping they had done so far. “We’ve been extremely productive! This is boring? Am I boring you?”

“No,” Ryan said and rolled his eyes. “But I can’t drink because if I drink, I’ll smoke pot. And if I start smoking pot, I’ll want coke.”

Ryan had been out of rehab for a day, and Brendon still didn’t know how to act. The previous night, he had kept offering to buy Ryan drinks, only to do a mental duh every single time. Spencer had laughed, thinking it had been funny.

“Well! We can, you know, enjoy the company! We don’t have to get wasted to have a good time,” Brendon pointed out. He scanned the room and said, “That sales assistant is kind of hot too.”

Ryan’s eyes thinned dangerously, and he stepped over, grabbing Brendon’s shirt and pulling him closer. “Stop trying to get me laid. _Now_.”

“Only trying to –”

“Last night, you tried hooking me up with practically every guy who could walk and talk. I’ve known I’m gay for years, Brendon, and I’ve always managed on my own. Stop being a matchmaker. You’re horrible at it.”

Ryan let go and stepped back. Brendon gave Ryan a sweet smile, ignoring how his friend was seething. “I just feel bad that I reacted the way I did, you know?”

It was true. He did feel bad about how he had taken the news. Ryan was gay, it was still weird, but he had to learn how to live with it. Ryan was one of them, and Brendon knew that the image shift would be unpleasant when everyone else found out, but he was willing to grit his teeth and bear it. He wasn’t willing to let Ryan go – Ryan was still one of his best friends, and no one else could have him, gay or straight.

But even now, Ryan saying “known I’m gay for _years_ ” had Brendon wondering just how good friends they were. How had he missed it? Why had Ryan not told him sooner? But Ryan had kept his secret and now was out of rehab and out of the closet. Well, meaning that Brendon and Matt knew. A bit of man love would probably cheer Ryan up. But no, Ryan was as bitchy as he ever had been. No change there, then.

Brendon noticed the watch Ryan was wearing and said, “You like it then? The watch I got you.”

“It has diamonds. Of course I like it.”

“I’m glad you do,” he smiled. He tried to think of things to talk about. “You hungry? Let’s go have lunch.”

They went to Brendon’s favourite vegan restaurant. Perhaps, it would have been fair to let Ryan pick, but Brendon really, really wanted to have that gorgeous tofu coconut soup.

Once the waitress had taken their orders, Brendon said, “Can you believe Jon left with those two chicks last night? Hilarious, right?”

“I thought it was funnier to see how disbelieving Spencer was. Groupies are so fucking tacky,” Ryan concluded with a flip of his hair, and Brendon was relatively sure that Ryan was just jealous people hadn’t been throwing themselves at him. Rehab wasn’t good for the reputation. The girls Jon had been talking to had been pretty hot, but yeah, Ryan wouldn’t be into a guy plus two girls combo, would he?

Ryan being gay was still weird.

Ryan stood up from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?” Brendon asked instantly.

Ryan shot him an angry glare. “I am going to take a piss, Brendon. I am not going to snort coke in the bathroom either. Do you want to come along and hold my hand?”

He lifted his hands defensively and watched Ryan walk away. He sighed. He could understand why Ryan was a bit edgy, but damn. Ryan without coke was kind of mean. He had thought that he would be getting an old friend back, the Ryan that Ryan had been before the mess with drugs, but nope, no such luck. Was Ryan angry with him or the world?

Brendon just wanted things to be like they used to have been.

It certainly wasn’t the same when Ryan came back with a tall, thin man that Brendon had seen with Ryan a few times before the OD incident. He must have been a model. He looked like a model.

“You remember William,” Ryan said, pointing back and forth.

“Yeah, sure,” Brendon frowned. “You happened to have a craving for vegan food too, huh?”

“I called Bill, asked him to come along. He works just five minutes from here, and it’s lunch hour,” Ryan said and smiled at William. Bill. The giving-Ryan-books Bill. Ryan had called him up when they had planned on hanging out just the two of them?

“I don’t think we’ve officially been introduced,” Brendon cut in, leaning over to offer his hand.

“I know you, of course,” William said, shaking his hand. “I’m William.”

“Yeah, I know you too,” Brendon said with a frown. Ryan and William sat down, and Ryan called the waitress over to take William’s order. Brendon had seen this guy before and not just with Ryan. Probably a magazine. The guy must have been a model. Also, Brendon was obviously in the ‘call me William’ category, but Ryan was a ‘call me Bill’ homie.

“It’s good to see you out of the clinic,” William beamed at Ryan.

Wait. Bill dude had been visiting Brendon’s Ryan?

“God, tell me about it. I never wanna be stuck in there again,” Ryan said with an exaggerated groan.

“I’m really proud of you!” William declared, and he said it like he meant it. Brendon kept trying to detect sarcasm that wasn’t there. Ryan smiled like he appreciated the compliment. What the hell was going on?

“Hey, hey Ryan,” he said, getting Ryan to look at him again. “Remember when I turned twenty-one last spring, when we flew to Vegas and hit the casinos? Remember that? Good times!”

“Yeah,” Ryan laughed. “God, we… um. Yeah. I did a shit load of coke that weekend.”

Oh, shit. So Ryan had.

“Yeah,” Brendon muttered, and his knee kept bouncing nervously.

It had all changed. Brendon’s coconut soup didn’t taste as delicious as it usually did. Ryan was going to therapy and not drinking or smoking. Ryan was bringing Bill along, a complete stranger with whom he had apparently watched soap operas with (“I wish you had told me that Days of Our Lives was addictive!” “I tried warning you, dude!”). Ryan was gay and different and changed. Brendon wanted to stand up and say that everything should go back to normal, right about the fuck now.

Jon was busy with the new album, and Brendon still wasn’t talking to Spencer. He suddenly realised just how small his circle of real friends was. Jon had his music friends, Ryan had his philosophy major nerd friends, Spencer had Jenny and the other people he kept on a fuck buddy rota. Brendon had plenty of acquaintances, but he couldn’t really trust them. Well, Brendon had Tom, he trusted Tom. Tom was an awesome guy. He should hang out with Tom some time. Lucía was kickass too, even if she was late fifties.

Brendon saw the way William looked at Ryan, and that certainly was suspicious. “So, William!” he said. _Are you trying to hit on Ryan?_ “Didn’t I see you at Angels and Kings last week? With this brunette, I assume she was your girlfriend?”

William frowned. “No, that wasn’t me.”

Damn. That answer didn’t help.

Ryan’s phone started ringing, and Ryan grimaced when he saw who it was. “Excuse me, my psycho of a mother is calling me. Wants to make sure I’m still clean, I’m guessing. I’ll just go take it over there.”

Brendon nodded. Time to start grilling Billy Boy here.

“Ryan’s made incredible progress, don’t you think?” William asked.

“Yeah. Absolutely. We’re all really proud of him.”

“He’s come a long way.”

“No, wait! Now I know where I saw you!” Brendon exclaimed and snapped his fingers. “No, no, yeah, I saw you at this, uh, club last week. But you were with this guy! Yeah. Boyfriend?”

William laughed. “That couldn’t have been me either. I’m very much single.”

Bingo.

“Although did he have black hair? It could have been Gabe, my best friend. He’s kind of hands on, plus we live together, so people mistake us for a couple pretty often.”

Dubious relationship with best friend? Check.

“What bar did you say this was?”

“Oh, never mind. Wasn’t you,” Brendon said sweetly. William was single, and since he didn’t get fazed over being associated with men, gay or bi. And single. And looking at Ryan like that. Ryan was gay and fragile and out of rehab. Brendon totally saw right through William’s bullshit.

“This one time someone thought me and Ryan were a couple,” Brendon said with a fake chuckle. “Yeah, not likely. I’m not like that myself, and Ryan thinks relationships are only for weak people. Peanuts?” he asked and offered the small bowl on the table.

William blinked. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

When Ryan came back, William was oddly silent until saying, “I have to go. Pilates class.”

Pilates? Well, of course the model boy had to take care of his flexible body.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Brendon muttered once William had left.

Ryan nodded. “He’s honest. I like that about him.”

Brendon wanted to scoff. Honest? Yeah, not likely.

“What?” Ryan asked, eyes thinning dangerously again, and Brendon changed the subject. He didn’t care, after all. It wasn’t his business.

They had gone shopping, had lunch, and drinking and smoking were out of the question. Brendon didn’t want to go hang out at his place because Spencer was there, and Spencer was an inconsiderate asshole who gave him the cold shoulder to smooch with Jenny fucking Tyron.

“You want a drive back home? I’ll make Sid do a detour,” Brendon offered in the end. He had run out of ideas.

Sid picked them up with the Rolls Royce, and they handed their bags to the chauffeur. Sid knew Brendon liked to listen to the radio when they drove, and so he had it on. Brendon cracked up when Electric Six’s _Gay Bar_ came on, exclaiming, “This song is so hilarious, dude,” before freezing up and saying, “Though, I mean, I don’t mean that in a –”

“Brendon!” Ryan snapped angrily. “Shut the fuck up, would you?”

“Right,” Brendon said and bit his lip, nodding to himself.

When Sid stopped outside Ryan’s building, Ryan said, “Come on up.”

“Um, well, I thought I –”

“I want to talk about my feelings. Dr. Harris said it’d be good for me not to bottle things up.”

Oh god. Ryan? Feelings? Since when did those two things go hand in hand? Still, Brendon didn’t want to be a shitty friend. He was sure William would offer to listen to Ryan talk, and Brendon had known Ryan for way, way longer than Billy Boy had.

Brendon told Sid not to wait and helped Ryan drag all the shopping up the stairs to his place. He dumped the bags on the couch of Ryan’s living room, feeling out of place. He fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket.

“So. Should I, uh, make us coffee? Though I actually don’t know how to make coffee. Um. So what feelings of yours did you want to, er, talk about?”

Ryan stared at him, hips cocked. “Come here.” Brendon stayed where he was, and Ryan held out his hand. “Come here, Brendon.”

Brendon reluctantly inched closer until placing his hand on Ryan’s open palm. Ryan’s long fingers instantly wrapped around his wrist, and he pulled Brendon closer, turning them around and pressing Brendon against the wall with a thud. Air left Brendon’s lungs, and he stared at Ryan’s nearly black eyes.

“Stop walking on eggshells around me. You’re infuriating, Brendon Urie,” Ryan said venomously, and Brendon wanted to say that he meant well, he just kept saying the most stupid shit and he was sorry for it, but Ryan crushed their mouths together.

Oh. _Oh._

He didn’t respond, and Ryan pressed against him, practically rubbing his crotch against Brendon. Hmm, it was kind of nice.

Ryan pulled back. “I can’t give you gay germs that are going to make you lose your interest in women, okay? And I don’t magically find every fucking guy you point out attractive. I don’t wanna talk about my feelings, and I am not going to break down because a stupid song is on the radio. Okay?”

Brendon nodded, exhaling a shaky, “Right.”

“What I want, though, is to fuck. I’ve gone over three weeks without getting any,” Ryan said, and his hands were already on Brendon, hungrily tracing his features. Ryan’s hair fell in front of his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

“I, um –”

Ryan stepped even closer, moving to take Brendon’s earlobe between his lips and sucking. Brendon made a helpless noise, and Ryan’s hands were working under his shirt, tracing his stomach. “I know all your weak spots,” Ryan said in a low growl, pushing one leg between Brendon’s and letting his thigh rub against Brendon’s crotch. God, that was really, really nice. “How many times have we fucked?”

“I don’t know. Lots of times,” Brendon said breathlessly, placing his hands on Ryan’s arms to keep himself balanced. He noticed that he was trying to rub himself against Ryan’s leg.

“Exactly. Lots of times. You’ve had sex with a gay guy before, so stop freaking the fuck out. You idiot.”

“I should be insulted,” Brendon murmured, placing one hand to the back of Ryan’s head, “but I really am not.”

He pulled Ryan in for a kiss, and Ryan grinned against his mouth, searching hands touching him all over. Brendon snaked a finger through Ryan’s belt loop and tugged him along, and Ryan practically pushed them into the bedroom.

Brendon struggled with getting his jeans off, the fit tighter than usual now that he was hard. He knew he probably looked stupid as he did the getting-the-socks-off dance, jumping from leg to leg, but Ryan didn’t seem to mind. Ryan was already butt naked (and Ryan always looked stunning naked, always had) and was getting supplies out of the nightstand.

Ryan’s expression darkened when he looked at Brendon, now properly undressed. Brendon cocked his hips smugly. “How do you want me?”

“On your back.”

Brendon obliged, getting on his back on Ryan’s bed. Ryan grinned as he walked to the bed, grabbing his ankles and pulling his legs apart. Brendon found himself grinning up at Ryan, and Ryan laughed. “Technically, Bren, I think this is gonna make you more gay than me.”

“I can top if you want. Just say the word,” he smirked.

“Nah,” Ryan said, getting on the bed between Brendon’s parted legs, long fingers running up and down his thighs. It tingled, and Brendon felt himself get even harder. “The thing is,” Ryan almost purred, his thumbs now making circles on Brendon’s inner thighs. Brendon shivered and closed his eyes. “That your ass? Is just made to be fucked. So even if I felt like bottoming, I see this ass of yours, and goddamn, I’ve changed my mind.”

Brendon laughed. “Thanks? I guess.”

Ryan hummed, and Brendon could feel Ryan’s hot breath on his skin. He sighed contentedly when Ryan began to place kisses on his lower stomach. Having sex with Ryan was good because Ryan paid attention to detail. It came with Ryan’s nature, Brendon supposed. And this time, Ryan’s hands never ceased to move, were kneading and rubbing his skin, lips and fingers everywhere like he wanted to eat Brendon up. Fuck, Brendon was getting luxury treatment. Ryan should be cut off of sex more often.

“Ry?” he asked breathlessly when Ryan’s mouth kept moving up his thigh, and Ryan only pulled his legs further apart, pushing his hips up slightly. Brendon blinked up at the ceiling, desire swirling deep in him, and. And oh.

“Oh,” he gasped, feeling Ryan’s tongue move over his entrance. Well, that was new.

Ryan’s mouth was on him, tongue rubbing over his hole. Brendon could feel the muscles of his legs vibrating, because oh Jesus Christ. He clutched the sheets and closed his eyes, letting the moans come through uncensored. Why had they never done that before? Fuck, that was kind of fucking amazing.

Ryan pulled back, swirling his tongue over him teasingly. Brendon could feel himself wet from Ryan’s spit, and his cock was leaking from it. Ryan pushed in one finger and ducked down again, licking around the finger that was pushing into him knuckle deep.

“Oh JesusfuckingChrist, Ryan,” Brendon said in one go, not bothering to breathe. He wondered if it had something to do with Ryan coming out, if now Ryan felt like he could go around rimming guys. Maybe. Who knew? Brendon didn’t care; he just didn’t want Ryan to stop.

When Ryan added a second finger, he used the fingers to keep him open and push his tongue between them, quick licks of hot tongue that had Brendon’s insides on fire.

Why the _fuck_ had Brendon never had this done to him before? Holy fucking shit.

His moans were pathetically high-pitched, and his entire body was thrumming.

“Ryan. Ryan, fuck, I’m gonna,” he said, his hand curling around his throbbing cock. Ryan was quick to lift his head, mouth shiny with spit.

Ryan swatted his hand away and squeezed the head of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon could feel the imminent orgasm fade.

“Control yourself. Jesus, you’re like an overeager virgin.”

“I am not,” Brendon replied breathlessly.

“You’d think you’re the one who’s been celibate,” Ryan shot at him. Ryan grabbed a condom and began rolling it on himself.

“But your tongue. I can’t even – fucking hell, your _tongue_ , Ryan,” he attempted to explain. Ryan rubbed some lube on his erection, obviously smirking.

“I guess I’ll have to do that again some time, seeing as you like it so much.”

“I’m up for it,” he instantly offered and bent his legs over his stomach to give Ryan access.

“Nuh uh,” Ryan said, taking hold of his legs. “I want you to ride me.”

Brendon didn’t even protest, just let Ryan pull him closer as they settled themselves on the bed, Ryan on his back and holding the base of his cock. Brendon climbed on top, frantically searching, _needing_. He pressed one hand on Ryan’s chest, balancing himself, and Ryan took a firm hold of his hips, guiding him. Ryan thrust up as Brendon pushed down, and they both gasped at the sensation of Ryan’s cock sinking into him.

“Fuck yeah,” Ryan breathed encouragingly, and Brendon moaned at the feel of Ryan’s cock sliding in deeper and deeper. Ryan was gay and admitted it. Brendon knew he wasn’t straight, but it didn’t change the fact that the world needed to think he was straight. He didn’t care as such, but he had to think of the reputation of his family. Spencer always ranted about that.

But as Ryan’s cock pushed into him, he didn’t care just what he was. He did whatever felt good. This? Fuck, it felt so, _so_ good.

Brendon began to ride Ryan, feeling the hot, heavy drag of Ryan’s cock in him. His legs pressed to Ryan’s sides as he moved up and down at a fast pace, slamming down hard each time.

Ryan drew in a sharp breath. “Gorgeous,” he said. The heat rising on Brendon’s cheeks had nothing to do with the sex.

He knew he wouldn’t last long; he was worked up as it was. He let his head roll back, letting the fire burn hotter and hotter inside him. He angled himself so that Ryan’s cock pressed against his prostate, and he made a small “ah” every time it happened. He could see stars behind his eyes.

“Ryan,” he gasped breathlessly, feeling sweat pushing through at his hairline.

Ryan didn’t need any clarification as he wrapped his fingers around Brendon’s cock, stroking. “Not yet,” Ryan ordered, and Brendon whined, his knees digging into the mattress as he moved on Ryan even faster and harder with his head thrown back. He loved having sex with Ryan. Fuck, how he loved it.

“So good,” Brendon blurted out. “So, _so_ good, oh fuck, I –”

“Gonna come, gonna come now,” Ryan panted, hips lifting off the mattress, throwing them off balance. Brendon fell forwards, hips trusting frantically as he spilled over Ryan’s hand seconds before Ryan came. Ryan grabbed his hips, pushing up, movements unrefined as he thrust into Brendon a few more times. Brendon’s toes curled as he slumped on top of Ryan, out of breath and sweaty.

Ryan ran his hands over Brendon’s back, soothing. Brendon felt completely sated as he came back down. He grunted and pulled off, rolling on the bed next to Ryan.

“Ungh,” he declared.

Ryan propped himself on one elbow lazily, reaching down and pulling the condom off. “‘Ungh’?” he asked and smirked at him.

Brendon stretched, body still tingling from the orgasm. “‘Ungh’, as in you should be deprived of sex more often.”

“Fuck that,” Ryan laughed, turning around and placing one hand on either side of Brendon, hovering above him.

Brendon smiled. “I prefer you like this. Clear-headed. I never liked fucking you when you were out of it.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asked, mildly surprised, and Brendon nodded in confirmation.

Ryan leaned down, Brendon’s eyes automatically fluttering shut before he put a hand between them, pushing Ryan away. “Dude, we’re not kissing after you –”

“Shut up, you were perfectly clean.”

“Gross,” Brendon whined, but it came out muffled against Ryan’s lips. Ryan didn’t taste any different, maybe a bit musky, but not in a bad way. Brendon let Ryan control the kiss, Ryan’s tongue sweeping over his hungrily. Brendon had always liked kissing Ryan, and he found his fingers tangled up in Ryan’s damp hair, pulling closer.

When they broke apart, Ryan softly nuzzled the side of his face. He exhaled and whispered, “I missed you.”

Brendon pressed his smile against Ryan’s jaw. Ryan smelled like home, a little. “Missed you too.”

“You could…” Ryan began, voice fading away.

Ryan always told Brendon that he could stay, and Brendon always said the same thing. “Maybe next time.”

It hadn’t been right with Ryan gone. Brendon had missed it, all of it. But he never stayed afterwards, not with anyone. He liked pillow talk and he liked post-coital cuddling, but he didn’t want to overdo it. It only made him think of Spencer, the things he could have had with him if their stupid parents had never gotten married. He didn’t want to live the life he should have had with someone who wasn’t the person he longed for.

Ryan only pulled on boxers as he showed Brendon to the door. His hair was mussed, and his eyes were a strange type of shiny. He said, “Stop limping.”

“You are unbelievably bossy, you know that?” Brendon muttered, trying to correct his walk. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry I was all weird before. About the rehab and, like, you being gay and stuff.”

“You’re still the woman in this relationship.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “I kinda hate you.”

“Sure you do,” Ryan smirked. He reached out to take hold of Brendon’s hand, rubbing Brendon’s palm with his thumb. Brendon could feel sparks flying to every part of his body. It was true that you didn’t appreciate what you had until it was gone. But Ryan had gone and come back, and Brendon appreciated his friend in a whole new way.

And, surprisingly, gay people weren’t always the feminine guys with lisps and exaggerated hand movements or the butch guys with motorcycles and leather pants. Some of them were _normal_ people. Just like Ryan. It came as a revelation. Brendon felt relieved knowing that.

“I’m happy you’ve come to terms with your, like, issues. And you can call me whenever. If you need anything at all,” Brendon promised. He was being the perfect friend. Take that, Pilates Billy...

“Thanks,” Ryan smiled. “Maybe you’ll stay next time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Brendon agreed. The atmosphere wasn’t awkward anymore. Brendon was happy they had managed to fuck away their problems.

“Later, man,” he said and playfully punched Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan smiled.

As he left, his hand still tingling from Ryan’s hold, perhaps limping but not embarrassingly so, he wondered why he never stayed.

He was surprised to realise he couldn’t remember anymore.


	16. Faux Weddings and Page Boys

Faux weddings and page boys.

When Grace and David had gotten married, Brendon had been eleven and Spencer had been ten. They had been too old to participate in the ceremony, not to mention they had hated each other, but Grace had insisted on it. Brendon had been the ring bearer, Spencer a page boy, and some cousins, nieces, whoever they had been, had been flower girls, giggling and running and pulling hair. Brendon had told Spencer that, “I’m going to hide the rings. I don’t want your loser dad to be my dad!” and Spencer had said, “He’s not a loser! Weddings are stupid!”

Unfortunately for them, David’s best man had had the rings. Brendon had been given a white pillow to carry that had only been of symbolic value. They had sulked through the entire ceremony. At the reception, Brendon had ended up screaming, “You’re not my brother! You’ll never be my brother!” before Lucía had picked him up and taken a hysterical Brendon home early. Spencer remembered them murmuring something strange in Spanish to each other, and Spencer had wailed, “Dad’s making me move to Mexico!”

But apart from the farce of the wedding, one thing had remained: Spencer had never become Brendon’s brother.

The wedding picture was one of many on David’s desk. Next to it was a recent picture of him and Grace, taken last year to celebrate their tenth anniversary. It was such a goddamn joke. David also had a toddler picture of Spencer, and Spencer was sitting in a woman’s lap, beaming at the camera. The woman got cut off where her neck began, the result of poor photography skills.

Spencer liked it better that way. He didn’t remember his mother’s face in great detail anymore. He didn’t want anyone to mention her to him, ever. What a useless whore she had been.

The door opened, and David walked in, stopping slightly. “Spencer! What are you doing in my office?”

David went over to one of the armchairs, putting down his briefcase.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Spencer explained, walking back around the desk and letting David reclaim his throne. David sat down in his big chair, switching the computer on.

“Well, make it quick. I’m going to the Hamptons to play some golf, won’t be back until Sunday.”

Spencer sat down, trying to keep his cool. “Grace hasn’t gotten out of bed yet,” he informed David. David had kept telling Spencer to call Grace his mother, but had stopped insisting on it at some point. Probably when David had realised that he had married a stranger.

“Hasn’t she now?” David asked, typing in the password and getting the automatic Windows welcome jingle. “She must be tired.”

Spencer noticed things, made observations. He wasn’t stupid. David had stopped taking Grace to therapy, David was never home. Sometimes, David spent the night elsewhere, and Spencer figured his father was screwing a twenty-five year old nurse or intern or something else right out of Grey’s Anatomy.

“Are you going to divorce her?”

David froze and looked at him with his mouth hanging open. “Spencer! That’s quite enough!”

“I’m just asking because I want to know what happens to my family!” he argued.

David’s lips formed a thin line. “That is something between me and Grace. It’s not for you kids to worry about.”

“Kids?”

David sighed heavily. “You’re right, Spencer. You’re not kids anymore. So whatever happens, you can take it as it comes. But… I have not given up on Grace just yet. Okay? And other than that, it’s not your business.”

Take it as it comes. Brendon had had three stepdads. Did David even stop to think about that? Did David stop to think of the damage he might cause, forcing Brendon to endure more and more men trying to be his father? And what then? Legally, Grace would still be Spencer’s mother. Legally, Brendon and David would be no relation whatsoever. Who would get the condo? Who would move out? Would Spencer get his own place? What would the press say? And Brendon, what would happen to him?

For someone who had praised the importance of keeping up appearances, David was being fucking ignorant.

“Okay, Dad,” he muttered. Ten years shot to shit. It meant nothing at all when it came down to it. Why bother? They were all falling apart as it was. Why fucking bother?

“I know that Grace is very… troubled right now and that it might be hard for you to understand. But she has not had an easy life, Spencer. She has her grievances. Try to be sympathetic. You know she loves you very much.”

Bullshit. She loved the idea of Spencer, of playing the loving adoptive mother for the cameras.

“Yeah, all that money and fame must have been horrible,” Spencer muttered before he could stop himself. He added a quick, “Sorry.”

David buried his face in his hands and sighed. He leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window, and David Smith was fifty-two and looked it. He looked fifty-two and then some. David should try some Botox on those wrinkles around his eyes.

“I haven’t been much of a husband lately,” David muttered, and Spencer didn’t know whether to lean forward in interest or tell his father to stop sharing, thanks. “It’s been worse lately, hasn’t it?” he asked, and Spencer nodded. “Women. It’s something I… and motherhood. Take my word for it, Spencer, we’ll never understand that.”

Spencer frowned because Grace hadn’t been much of a mother lately, if ever.

“What makes you say that?” he queried.

David gave him a long, hard look, obviously estimating him. Spencer tried to sit up straighter.

“Grace had a miscarriage shortly after we married,” David said in a serious tone, and Spencer couldn’t stop from flinching. “Everything was as it should. It was a girl. But Grace had unexpected complications and lost the child. If the due date was correct, then your little sister would have recently turned ten. Grace has taken it very hard. She always did, but time heals, I suppose. I don’t know what’s triggered it off this time. Just the number, I suppose, ten years. Makes it sound so…” David trailed off thoughtfully.

Spencer looked down at his hands, taking in the information. “I never…”

“We didn’t get around to telling you two. Because of the press, you see, you might have blurted it to the press before we got to make the formal announcement. It was better that you never knew, though. The miscarriage might have traumatised you. You were still so young.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nodded. A sister. Oh fucking _god_. “Does Brendon know?”

“No,” David said with a shake of his head.

Good. That was good. Brendon could never find out about it either.

“Well,” Spencer said and cleared his throat, “I’ll try to be patient with her.”

“I’d appreciate that,” David said. “Oh, and now that you’re here, Spencer, I was meaning to talk to you about the _ridiculous_ amounts of money you and Brendon have been spending. I was going through the account details yesterday at work. Ten thousand at Tiffany’s?”

“That was Bren,” he was quick to say.

“A thousand here, another there. It all adds up, you know. I am not made of money,” David said sharply but did not sound half as angry as he might have been. Obviously thinking about his would-have-been daughter had made David void of his usual fight.

They made some money themselves from interviews and such, and companies and magazines were just _waiting_ to throw money at them. It wasn’t bad at all, but Brendon often said that, “It’s not enough to buy a villa in France!”

Spencer was twenty-one and still living off his parents’ money. But so what? Ryan did it, hell, even ‘professional musician’ Jon did it.

“Brendon bought Grace a pair of earrings at Tiffany’s.”

David’s expression softened further. “Did he now? Grace must have loved that.”

Spencer nodded, not sure what to do with the silence landing on them. “So…” he said, coughing slightly. “I’m, uh, not cut off anymore? Because of the… incident.”

“No, you’re not, though I cannot stress enough that I was very disappointed in you,” David said, and yeah, Spencer had figured as much from all the shouting David had done. “I want you to realise that there is a time and a place for those types of activities. And this is my home and, as such, is not the appropriate place. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer said. He never said ‘sir’ unless David’s tone indicated that it was required.

“Good,” David said, turning to the computer to check something. “Well, I need to start getting ready. You’ll never guess who I’m playing with.”

“Tiger Woods?”

“Even better!” David grinned. “Alistair Walker!”

“Jon’s dad,” Spencer said in realisation, noticing just how quickly David managed to take his thoughts off his alcoholic wife and no-good sons.

“Of course, he will beat me, but I’m playing with a professional! Hopefully, I’ll keep to the par.”

“You’ll get an eagle.”

David laughed, excitement on his face. “I wish! A birdie wouldn’t be all that bad.”

Spencer smiled politely, getting up and making his way to the door.

“We’ll talk about the unexplained cash withdrawals off your account when I come back, Spencer,” David said sweetly, which barely covered the harsh tone underneath, and Spencer froze. Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.

“Uh… yeah. Um. Yeah. Have fun with Alistair,” he said before exiting the office quickly.

Fuck his dad. David had always been so unpredictable, solemn over a dead child one minute, playing the understanding dad the next, and finally, back to being a vindictive asshole.

Baby sisters and divorces. Spencer couldn’t stand any of it.

If this family fell apart, Spencer would be the first one out of the door. If all of his efforts had been in vain, he was ready to give them the finger and storm off.

He’d take Brendon with him, though.

He and Ryan were going to go to the gym to work out. Ryan was the only one who liked running treadmills. Brendon liked his tennis, and Jon didn’t believe in exercise, whatever that meant. It was good to have Ryan back, though.

Ryan was still alive, and there was no divorce – yet. Luck was still on Spencer’s side. He only owed Skinny seven grand and he’d be done with that too. Seven grand wasn’t much at all. He could weasel himself out of this one, somehow.

He was surprised to hear Jon’s voice coming from the game room, and he walked to the opened door to find Brendon and Jon around the pool table. He said nothing, just watched Brendon focus on his next move, bending over the table with the cue in his hands. Jon was watching Brendon intently, sipping beer from a can. Jon’s stubble was slowly developing into a proper beard. It looked good on him.

Jon suddenly looked up, and their eyes locked. Spencer’s mind went blank.

“Hey,” Jon grinned just as Brendon made his move, and Brendon jerked, the ball missing the ones he had been aiming for.

“Goddammit, Jon!” Brendon said before following Jon’s stare. Spencer smiled at them both, but Brendon was quick to look away. “Speak of the devil,” Brendon muttered. Brendon was still mad at him about Jenny. Jenny had long gone, but Brendon kept pouting.

“I’m being talked about behind my back?” Spencer asked and walked in further.

“Only horrible things,” Brendon said as Jon prepared to make his move.

It was a good thing Brendon didn’t know they almost had had a sister. Who knew just how Brendon would take the news? The kid would freak out.

“Brendon was just telling me what a big softie you are,” Jon said. “Cutting short European skiing holidays and flying across the world for some girl you had a crush on? Talk about being a Casanova.”

Spencer scoffed. “I was seventeen.”

He raised an eyebrow at Brendon, who didn’t look at him. Brendon loved retelling that story, usually only to Spencer, though. But of course, Spencer had flown across the world to be reunited with Brendon. He had been seventeen. He had been in love. And when he had come back, it had been the first time they had said that they loved each other. Spencer couldn’t blame Brendon for telling the story in vague versions to other people. It had nostalgic value of a time when Spencer had been surer about things. It had clarity, beautiful shining clarity, and it had the faint memory of Spencer’s heart skipping a beat every time his eyes had locked with Brendon’s.

Those were times that had evaporated when Spencer had let reality catch up with him.

“Besides,” Spencer said and looked at Jon, “at least I’m not twenty-three and having threesomes with groupies.”

Jon laughed uncomfortably and focused on the game again. Spencer walked over to the big windows, sitting on one of the windowsills and following the game from there, occasionally glancing down to see the yellow taxis thirty-three floors below.

Jon was kicking Brendon’s ass, but mostly, the two men ignored him. Spencer kept picturing a ten-year-old girl running into the room, long hair flying behind her, some expensive dress hugging her tiny form, a bright smile on her face. She’d have Brendon’s smile.

“Apparently our dads are playing golf together today,” Spencer said finally.

“Yeah, they are. My parents will be coming to the city after the weekend. Haven’t seen them in ages,” Jon said as he played his last turn and won the game.

“I hate pool,” Brendon declared, throwing the cue on the table angrily.

Jon grinned. “Owe me fifty bucks.”

“Gambling?” Spencer cut in, eyes thinning. Brendon had the sense to blush slightly. Brendon didn’t have a very good history when it came to gambling.

“Only fifty bucks,” Brendon reasoned.

Spencer could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. “I can’t fucking believe you, Brendon,” he spat. Jon looked taken aback, but of course, he didn’t know. “Jonathan. Could you leave us alone for a minute?”

“Sure thing,” Jon said, instantly heading for the door, though he looked hesitant and questioning.

Spencer got off the windowsill once the door closed, walking over to Brendon who kept his arms folded. “Didn’t getting into trouble with Skinny teach you anything?”

“I was drunk, it was poker, and I was playing with gangsters and lowlifes so yes, I learned my lesson. Pool with Jon? A bit fucking different. Don’t patronise me.”

“It’s a matter of principle!” he argued.

“Oh, and you’re a man of principles, are you? What are those, exactly, because I have never –”

Spencer let his hand curl into a fist in Brendon’s shirt, pulling his stepbrother closer until their lips crashed together. Brendon’s hands flew to his hips, and they stumbled backwards until the backs of Spencer’s thighs hit the pool table. He pulled back, their wet lips making a pop. Brendon stared, eyes swirling with an emotion, with love. Spencer knew it was love, and he was always torn whether or not he should have pretended it wasn’t there.

“Stop being angry with me,” Spencer whispered, brushing his knuckles over Brendon’s cheek.

“You deserve it.”

Spencer chuckled. “Jealousy makes you cute.”

Brendon glared at him but didn’t step away from the embrace. “I was _not_ jealous then, and I am _not_ jealous now!”

“You’re kind of adorable, actually,” Spencer grinned, and Brendon’s lips twitched upwards. If Spencer had known at David and Grace’s wedding reception the tricks that ensured Brendon’s anger fading away, then a lot of hassle would have been saved that day.

Spencer stood up straighter, putting some distance between them. He tilted his head. “Should I go first?”

“You better,” Brendon huffed, though it was obvious he hadn’t been mad at Spencer for a long time, but had been bitchy out of pride.

Spencer paused and looked straight into Brendon’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Brendon pressed.

Spencer rolled his eyes. “For being a jerk, ignoring you, doing inappropriate things with my ex-girlfriend and so on, who is now back in LA and who really doesn’t mean much to me. Now you.”

Brendon hated this part, and Spencer knew it. Brendon was too stubborn.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you for ignoring me. And for being moody and acting out, and for having been an ass lately.”

Brendon said it in one go, almost muttering, but it was good enough. Spencer offered his fist. “Truce?”

Brendon sighed. “Truce.”

Spencer knocked his knuckles with his stepbrother’s. If he got a dime for the hundreds of times they had done this exact same thing, every knuckle-knock confirmed truce since they had been kids, he’d be a rich man. Well, richer than he was.

It always worked, though. Spencer felt tension drain out of his body, felt some of the weight on his heart be lifted.

“Kiss on it?” Brendon grinned.

“Fine,” Spencer chuckled, and he let Brendon steal a soft, lingering kiss before they were officially over the Jenny incident. What would Brendon be like if Spencer ever actually got involved with someone again? Brendon would see it as the end of the world.

Brendon was beaming, and it was amazing just how quickly Brendon could go from one set of mind to another. Almost like David.

If their family was really coming to an end, Spencer would take Brendon with him. No matter how annoying Brendon was, no matter how much trouble Brendon always got him into. Spencer figured that maybe that’s what love was, putting up with someone’s idiocy.

“You want a drink?” Brendon offered, picking up his own empty beer bottle.

“An orange juice,” Spencer said, and Brendon went to get them more drinks, letting Jon back into the room as he left.

“What was that about?” Jon asked.

“Brotherly ploys.”

He suppressed a sigh. Brendon had never been his brother.

Jon glanced over his shoulder, at the opened door, before walking over, stepping too close into Spencer’s space. Spencer inhaled Jon’s scent. Thursday – Bvlgari Aqva.

“I was wondering if you’re free tonight,” Jon whispered quietly, looking at him from under his eyelashes, voice low. Spencer could feel himself shiver involuntarily.

“I, um…”

Jon stepped even closer, placing a hand on Spencer’s hip, pulling him closer. Spencer wanted to laugh and say absolutely not, that Jon had surely been satisfied by the sluts he had taken home the weekend before. But Jon looked at him, and Spencer’s stomach dropped. Jon always fucked him so fucking well.

“Yeah. Okay,” he agreed shakily, licking his lips.

When Brendon came back with a beer and an orange juice, Jon was on the other side of the room, typing into his phone. Spencer still felt shaky. He didn’t know when he had become unable to say no to Jon.

Brendon couldn’t find out about their dead sister or about Spencer letting Jon fuck him on a regular basis.

If you loved someone, you didn’t want to hurt them. On the contrary, your first reaction was to protect them. That did not necessarily justify lies, but Spencer figured that what he never said could not be considered as lying. No, it was more along the lines of selective information sharing.

Brendon smiled at him. Jon smiled at him.

Spencer muttered, “Fuck my life,” under his breath and took a sip of his drink.

* * *

To call or not to call Peach? That was the question, and it was one that Ryan asked himself once an hour.

He missed it. He missed feeling carefree and invincible. In rehab, he hadn’t been able to do coke, but it was so much harder outside, when he knew it was only a phone call away. He knew Peach’s number by heart. He had the numbers of five different dealers on his phone alone.

It was the worst when he was by himself so he tried not to be alone.

“I’ll get this,” William hurried to say when Ryan pulled out his wallet to pay for their lunch. They were in one of Ryan’s favourite cafés, one for obnoxious intellectuals in knitted vests and oversized black-framed glasses they probably didn’t even need. It was right off campus and convenient for Ryan. William, however, had come from the other side of the city just to eat an overpriced mozzarella and tomato panini.

“It’s fine,” Ryan assured William, getting out cash.

“No, really, I –”

“Bill. I’m filthy rich, and you get minimum wage,” he pointed out, and William looked slightly embarrassed.

William tugged hair behind his ear and muttered, “Get more than minimum wage.”

“Tell it to someone who cares,” Ryan smirked. Ryan had a few more classes, but he didn’t plan on attending them. He had dragged himself all the way to Morningside, gotten an extension on some of his work, and planned on calling his dad and telling him to call the dean and explain that men like Ryan didn’t _actually_ have to attend classes.

When he and William walked back out, the street mostly filled with students, William asked, “Do I look like I could be a student here?”

Ryan glanced him up and down. “Yeah, why not?”

“Awesome,” William grinned.

William didn’t bullshit. If William thought Ryan was being an asshole, he told Ryan so. If William was impressed by the campus, he didn’t hide it under defiant lower class pride, he felt free to say that it was kind of awesome.

Ryan couldn’t understand the ease with which William seemed to be himself.

“Ryan!”

They both stopped and turned around to see a short, eager-looking man marching over. Ryan could feel his insides tighten, and he bit his cheek. “Todd, hey. Long time, no see.”

“Yeah, man!” Todd exclaimed, patting Ryan’s shoulder. “I heard about what happened, dude. Wow. Wow, shit got heavy, huh?”

Ryan had long since decided that overdosing was cooler than a suicide attempt, and so he almost snapped, “I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”

Todd froze, his friendly smile turning awkward. “Right… Yeah. Sorry. Uh… Who’s your friend?”

Ryan did the introductions, albeit coldly. “William, this is Todd, another philosophy major. And Todd, this is William.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Todd said and offered his hand. “What do you study then?”

“Neurobiology. It’s a lot of fun,” William said, and Todd looked impressed. Ryan suppressed a snigger because, yeah, William didn’t bullshit his friends, but strangers were another thing entirely.

“Awesome, man. But hey, Ryan. I’m, uh, glad you’re still around and are, you know, feeling better and shit. The thing is that me and a few of the guys were talking, and I’ve happened to get my hands on some snow, and I kinda can’t keep it, you know how it is, so… Hey, I heard that you might wanna buy it off me!”

Todd smiled warmly, and Ryan’s world stopped. Todd was trying to sell him cocaine. Did Todd have it on him? Was it good quality? What prices were they talking? How fast could he get it? Now? Did Ryan have enough cash? Goddammit, where was the nearest ATM?

“That sounds good,” Ryan rushed out, palms suddenly clamp with sweat.

It wouldn’t hurt to do just a little. For old time’s sake. It wouldn’t hurt at all, just a little, _little_ bit...

Ryan’s heart kept beating wildly as his entire body shivered with want.

Todd grinned. “Excellent! So –”

“No thanks!” William said loudly, snapping Ryan out of his daze. William took a step forward, and as William was a tall man, Todd seemed to shrink in comparison. “We don’t want any. And don’t try selling us your shit again unless you want my fist up your ass, okay?”

Todd paled, and Ryan intervened with a pissed off, “But –”

William turned to look at him. He wasn’t angry, but he looked hurt. “I did not visit you in rehab almost every day for nothing.”

“Re-Rehab?” Todd stuttered, and suicide wasn’t cool but neither was rehab. Ryan looked down at his shoes, could almost feel the tips of his ears tingling with heat as Todd muttered apologies and said that he hadn’t known.

Humiliation lingered in the air after Todd had left. Ryan almost had the sense to feel shame. Almost.

He was calming down, the mere mention of cocaine having worked him up. His mouth felt dry, and his palms were sweaty, and his mind was screaming for him to run after Todd and make the deal. His mind was also screaming at him, saying, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?! Never again!’

“I –” Ryan began to say something to William, something to shift the awkward atmosphere, but his phone cut him off. He was glad for it and avoided eye contact as he took it out of his pocket. “Jon, what’s up?”

“Um, you were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Jon’s voice informed him.

Oh, shit, Ryan had completely forgotten about that. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sorry, man.” He wasn’t really sorry.

“It’s fine. See you in a bit.”

William was looking across the street when Ryan finally acknowledged his friend again. “I’m late. I’ll take a taxi down to the Village. You want to share?”

“Sure,” William nodded, and he wasn’t angry that Ryan honestly had wanted to buy the coke off of Todd. But maybe William was disappointed? Or sad? Ryan didn’t know. He hadn’t known William long enough to figure it out.

They sat in silence in the backseat, and William let out a long breath shortly after 65th Street. “I didn’t mean to snap at you or anything. It wasn’t my place. Sorry.”

“I was about to buy drugs. I’m a recovering drug addict. It’s okay.” William smiled at him then, bright and shiny, and Ryan felt himself shake his head. “I’m kind of ridiculous, right?” he asked, self-loathing in his tone.

“Nah. Now Gabe, he is ridiculous. You have to meet him properly some time. You should come to our shitty apartment. I think we just killed the last of the mice. It’s highly visitor friendly now.” Ryan quirked a sceptical eyebrow, and William smiled wider. “Oh, come on. I’ll make you dinner, wine and dine you. It’d be fun. Though Gabe always works evenings, so it’d just be us.”

Ryan looked at William for a long, long time, the soft and beautiful features of William’s face. Why was William friends with him? It couldn’t be because of Ryan’s smashing personality or incredible looks – William had been there when Ryan had been at his lowest ever, pining away in rehab. It couldn’t be the money, seeing as William always attempted to make sure they paid everything half and half. All Ryan could think of was his connections to famous people, and William had been a bit star struck with some of them but had also exclaimed that Brendon had been “kind of weird” when the three of them had had lunch together.

“So are we set for dinner?” William asked, tone… hopeful?

“Yeah. Sure,” Ryan said. They didn’t say anything as the driver stopped outside the gym where William was about to start his shift. William was already out of the door when Ryan called out, “Hey, Bill?”

William leaned down, hair falling in front of his eyes as he peeked into the backseat. “Yeah?”

“I’m gay.”

William didn’t miss a beat. “I know that.”

William just smiled, slamming the car door shut. Ryan didn’t know what to make of that either. The turban wearing taxi driver was looking highly uncomfortable in the newfound silence, and Ryan rolled his eyes. “Christopher Street,” he ordered, and the taxi took off again.

He wondered how William had known.

“Not cool, man. Not cool,” Jon told him firmly when he finally got to Jon’s. “Brendon would’ve been pissed if you had disappeared on my watch.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan replied. His gang had decided that, for now, it was necessary for someone to keep an eye on him. In practice, this meant that Ryan was hanging out with one of the guys more often than not. It didn’t feel like they were babysitting him because it was casual enough. The difference was that now the hanging out was ‘don’t leave the junkie alone’ motivated. He didn’t mind because he didn’t like being alone.

“What are we doing?” Ryan asked Jon. He gazed out into the balcony that was accessible from the living room and grinned. “How about we try out your Jacuzzi? It’s warm enough outside. Yeah, let’s! That’d be awesome.”

“No Jacuzzi,” Jon said, and Ryan realised that it might be potentially weird if they were both in their underwear. “We’re cleaning today.”

“What?”

Turned out, Jon wasn’t even kidding.

“Be careful with that!” Jon called out, and Ryan bit on his bottom lip to keep from snapping. Jon was cleaning up his shitty apartment because his parents were paying him a visit soon.

And Ryan was cleaning. He was fucking _cleaning_.

“I think I can –” Ryan began angrily, swirling around, and the instrument in his hands banged against the wall of Jon’s bedroom.

Jon grimaced and marched over. “My poor mandolin!” he exclaimed, taking it from Ryan lovingly.

“You know, I’ll just sit over here and watch you organise your shit, okay? And enjoy my cranberry juice,” he added bitterly, eyes lingering on Jon’s bottle of beer. He could drink again, eventually, but for now, he had been advised not to. He made himself comfortable on the armchair and tried to hide how fucking bored he was. “Don’t you have a cleaner?”

“She comes by every two weeks,” Jon informed him, on his hands and knees pulling socks from under his bed.

“Call her up and tell her this dump needs to be cleaned.”

“She gave birth to her first child last week, so I don’t think I’ll bother her with this.”

Ryan sighed and looked around. There were parties all over New York right then, but it would be unwise to go. Hell, Todd had been indication enough that Ryan would do coke the second anyone offered him some. Had life without drugs always been this boring? Not to mention the ridiculous amount of work he had to do for his courses. His professors didn’t seem particularly sympathetic that he had overdosed and spent three weeks in rehab; they still wanted him to give presentations on Hume. Life without coke was all work and no play, but at least Ryan’s dad had promised to call up the university and tell them to go easy on him. Ryan wondered how much that would cost.

“So, how’s the album going?” Ryan asked.

“Fantastic, actually. We’re going to the studio in a few weeks to record it.”

“What’ll it be called?”

Jon shrugged and dumped all the shit he had found under the bed on it. “Don’t know yet.”

Ryan’s eyes instantly caught something in the pile of junk. He grinned broadly as he went over, snatching the handcuffs from the clothes pile before Jon could stop him. “Well, well,” he grinned. “Threesomes and handcuffs. It must be amazing to be you.”

Jon’s cheeks looked a bit red as he took the handcuffs back. They looked sturdy with three inch leather bands. Jon was such a goddamn perv.

“I’m not judging,” Ryan teased.

“You ever tied someone down, Ryan?” Jon asked quietly.

“Handcuffs once. With Brendon.”

“Those pink ones?”

Ryan stopped slightly. How the hell did Jon know? “Yes, those. Brendon’s been showing them off, has he? He did look good tied down, though, those narrow hips of his thrusting upwards.”

Jon grimaced. “Could you not, um, give me that mental image? Thanks.”

Ryan laughed slightly. Jon had always said that it was weird for Ryan and Brendon to be good friends as well as fuck buddies, but Ryan knew it was just Jon’s homophobia pushing through. Brendon had been all over Ryan since he had gotten out, in his own, annoying Brendon way that Ryan secretly adored. And now that Brendon had stopped freaking out over him being gay, it was as good as it ever had been.

Maybe it was better this way. Now that Brendon knew Ryan was gay, Brendon at least must have acknowledged that, should Brendon wish it, Ryan could have a relationship with a man. It was far-fetched - he knew that - but at least Brendon knew of the possibility.

Jon would probably find Ryan’s relationship with Brendon even weirder if they ever dated. Ryan couldn’t blame him. That’d be like Jon and Spencer screwing each other, which Ryan didn’t even want to think about.

“It’s a very good mental image,” Ryan smirked. There was no time like the present, he figured, so he said, “Also, it’s one I like thinking about. I’m gay, actually.”

It was like Ryan’s catchphrase now – gay here, gay there, gay fucking everywhere! But every time he said it, his voice wavered less. Every time he said it, he felt a fraction better. He was ready to take the humiliation and rejection because he was sick of feeling sorry for being who he was.

Jon stopped rolling mismatched socks together, freezing up and blinking at him. “Come again?”

“I’m gay. So if you want to give me the rant on it being sinful or whatever it is you think of it, then go right ahead with your homophobic ways. I can take it. I just don’t want you to bullshit me.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open, and Ryan waited for the rant of Jon being disgusted with him. Ryan wouldn’t care very much because he didn’t value Jon’s opinion much as it was. In some masochistic way, Ryan wanted everyone to stop being so understanding about it and call him a freak of nature already.

“I-I’m not homophobic! Jesus Christ, I’ve hung out with you guys for years, and you’ve all always fucked men! I am _not_ homophobic!” Jon exclaimed. “It’s really shitty that you think that of me!”

Ryan frowned and waited, but Jon only looked at him with hurt eyes. “That’s it?” he asked.

Ryan was gay, and Jon was simply insulted over something Ryan said?

Jon shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Well… yeah. It’s not my business. It’s good that you know who you are, so that, you know, you don’t have to go through any sexual identity crises or any of that. Good for you, man. I’m not gonna make a big deal out of it or anything.”

Now it was Ryan’s turn to feel insulted.

“That’s _it_?” he repeated in astonishment. He had thought that Jon would have been the one to go schizo over it, to call him queer and freak out. Even Brendon had taken the news worse than Jon had.

Jon shrugged and went to a chest of drawers, throwing socks (both clean and dirty) in one of the drawers. “So how do you know?”

“That I’m gay?”

“Yeah,” Jon nodded and turned around to face him.

Ryan paused to figure out how to explain it to someone like Jon, who obviously couldn’t relate in any way. “Well… how do you know you’re straight?” he asked.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, fair point.”

“This information is classified, by the way. I’m not gonna organise any big coming out party.”

“I totally get that. You can trust me,” Jon said with a surprising smile that induced confidence. “So who knows?”

“You do, Brendon does, Matt does, my friend Bill does. I’ll tell Spencer when I see him.”

“So I’m the fourth person who knows? Wow. I feel privileged,” Jon winked, and Ryan laughed, mostly out of shock. He had been so sure that Jon would flip out. William hadn’t even batted an eye, and Jon was already winking and chuckling about it.

Why was no one screaming at Ryan that it was an abomination and that he should die?

“When do you plan on coming out officially and stuff?” Jon asked, and Ryan shrugged.

“Never? I don’t know. I really don’t wanna deal with it.”

“Don’t worry about it, dude. People will talk, but in case you don’t know, I think you’re one of the few people who are gonna be able to get away with being gay. You’re not stereotypically so, you’re popular as hell, and you only hang out with celebrities. I’d like to meet the guy who has balls big enough to say a thing about it. And if someone tries to give you a hard time…” Jon said and trailed off before motioning between them.

Ryan blinked. He had never thought of it like that. All he had been focused on were hate crimes, discrimination, and the derogatory comments his own friends made often enough. And now Jon was telling him not to worry, that the gang would back him up. Ryan wasn’t sure who or what he had underestimated: his friends or his own prestige.

“You’re full of surprises, Walker,” Ryan said as he went back to the chair and his cranberry juice.

“As are you, Ross,” Jon countered, and Ryan smiled.

He had never been crazy about Jon Walker, the guy that girls swooned over because of his shitty music, the guy who Brendon had introduced to Ryan as “the most awesomest guy ever”. Ryan hadn’t actively disliked Jon either, but rather, he had accepted Jon’s existence, sometimes finding himself liking Jon’s wit and sarcasm.

But for some reason, Ryan felt like Jon understood him when it came to this. Brendon hadn’t understood him, Matt hadn’t understood him, and William hadn’t understood him. Brendon thought that it made him fragile, Matt thought that it made him the chick friend she had never had, and William… well, William was assuming something.

Jon, though? It was like he got it. Ryan didn’t know why that was, but suddenly, he didn’t mind so much that he was helping Jon clean out his ugly apartment.

Ryan took in a breath. He was gay, and the world was still spinning.

He forgot about Todd and chose not to call Peach the fourth time that day.


	17. Disruption

Disruption.

That’s what they called it when an adoption was unsuccessful; it had been “disrupted”. It was usually because the adoptive parents realised they could not cope, sometimes because they were found out to be unfitting after all.

If Grace Urie-Smith had wanted to adopt now, would anyone let her?

Grace could have gone for the typical stepparent adoption, but no, she had insisted on wanting to adopt Spencer properly, making Spencer’s biological mother give up all of her rights. Brendon figured out the dates, made the calculations, and came to the appalling realisation that Grace had adopted Spencer shortly after her miscarriage of their theoretical baby sister Diana.

Brendon despised his mother even more. It was clear that Grace had adopted Spencer as a replacement.

David’s lawyer, Burkhart, arrived at the condo thirteen past six, and David showed him to his office where Grace was too. They were due to leave at seven, and Brendon wondered what exactly was so urgent that David had wanted to see his lawyer right before their dinner with the Walkers. Brendon tried eavesdropping outside David’s office until Lucía sent him to get ready for going out.

Grace had always had an obsession of having him and Spencer wear identical clothing, and so they both wore black Armani suits with two-button jackets on her request, though Spencer had picked out a grey tie and Brendon had chosen a red one.

“You know,” Brendon began as they both were fixing their hair in Spencer’s bathroom, getting ready to go and shine. “Burkhart’s here.”

“Dad probably wants to further amend his will and leave me off it,” Spencer muttered.

“Do you think that’s what it’s about? His will?”

“What else would it be about?”

Brendon wasn’t sure, but it didn’t bode well. Burkhart never, ever boded well. But now that Burkhart was there, Brendon wanted to ask the lawyer a question on something that had been on his mind ever since Spencer had turned twenty-one the past September. Because he wanted to have a word with Burkhart, he casually hung out in the hallway, waiting for the middle-aged lawyer to come out of David’s office.

Eventually, Brendon heard muffled goodbyes through the door, and he skipped further down, pretending to be walking along as Burkhart stepped out.

“Brendon! How are you?” Burkhart greeted him as he closed the door, taking in Brendon’s formal attire. “Ah, yes! David said that you are all going out.”

“Dining with the Walkers. Alistair Walker, the golfer,” Brendon explained charmingly.

“A very talented sportsman. Well, enjoy yourselves, and give Spencer my greetings,” Burkhart said politely, passing Brendon.

Brendon quickly caught up with him. “Did Dad just want to amend his will again then?” he chuckled, showing Burkhart the way to the door.

Burkhart smiled back. “You can ask David that, surely.”

Yeah, yeah, Burkhart wasn’t allowed to say. “I will. Anyway, I actually wanted to ask your legal opinion on something. Or, well, just get the facts, really.”

Burkhart stopped and seemed slightly put out. “Well, you can call my secretary and make an appointment if –”

“No need for that, it’s just a tiny thing,” Brendon rushed. “It’s just that- Well. Spencer turned twenty-one last year. And I was wondering that if he wanted to, could he, theoretically speaking, disrupt the adoption?”

Burkhart frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Grace adopted him,” Brendon explained. “And now that Spencer himself is an adult, could he not have that decision overrun? Meaning that my mother would no longer be his mother, and that he would… Well. No longer be my brother.”

“I always thought you boys got along well,” Burkhart said, seemingly even more confused.

“We do, yeah. I just… want to know. Can stuff like that be done?”

Burkhart looked around worriedly to see that no one was hearing the conversation take place, obviously not sure if this was a conversation he ought to be having with Brendon.

“Well… what you’re talking about, Brendon, is a very complicated legal matter called dissolution. One would have to have severe grounds for something like that. I highly doubt the adoption can be disrupted, so what you’re looking at is an individual wishing to have the existing parent-child relationship terminated. It’s a long and difficult legal process, and not something that should be taken lightly.”

“But it _could_ be done,” Brendon pressed.

Burkhart, by this stage, obviously regretted having said anything at all. “I must get going now. Goodbye.” He left Brendon standing by himself, mulling it over.

It _could_ be done.

David and Grace walked out of David’s office and noticed him staring into space. “Brendon, where’s your brother? We must get going,” David said. Grace looked slightly pale.

“I’ll get him,” Brendon offered, a sudden joy spreading in him. His brother? Not necessarily. There was light at the end of the tunnel, and Brendon could see it glimpsing somewhere far ahead for the first time in years.

Spencer was just closing the living room door when Brendon turned around the corner. “Hey,” he all but purred. Spencer looked stunning in his suit.

Spencer pulled hair from his eyes and said, “Let’s get this hideous dinner over with.”

Brendon let himself play with the scenario of this being them going out on a date.

David and Grace were waiting for them in the foyer, Grace in an emerald dress and matching high heels. She had her hair tied at the back, a few locks framing her face. She looked more than presentable, but she always did put in an effort when it came to the world watching in on them. Brendon was relieved to see that she seemed sober.

“Don’t our boys look stunning, David?” Grace asked, her voice sounding surprisingly cold. She all but glared at her husband.

“Very handsome,” David nodded through thin lips. “Let’s get going then.”

Spencer lifted an eyebrow at Brendon, and he shrugged. He had no idea what was going on either.

Tom had the limousine out front, and the four of them sat in silence all the way to the restaurant. Grace kept tapping her long nails against the matching purse. They didn’t have much to say to each other. Brendon tried to remember the last time the four of them had been anywhere at the same time but couldn’t.

Brendon had no idea how the paparazzi knew where they were going to be, but somehow they always did. Two eager photographers were waiting outside the restaurant as they got out of the car, instantly shouting all of their names, adding, “Family portrait, family portrait!” or “Grace, look here!”

David didn’t seem too pleased, determinedly heading for the door as the cameras clicked. Brendon flashed a smile at them, staying right at Spencer’s heels to make sure they’d be in the same frame.

The Walkers were already in the restaurant. They had reserved the VIP room, ensuring them privacy and first class service. Pavarotti was singing in the background when they got there, and the three Walkers stood up around the round table to greet them.

Alistair Walker looked like an old, slightly rougher version of Jon. He had a potato nose and scarce hair, the balding gene kicking in. Jon’s mother Terrene, who just went by Terry, was a beautiful woman. It was clear that Jon’s good looks had come straight from her. When everyone did their rounds of greetings, Brendon observed, “You’ve shaved!”

Jon had had a decent beard developing. Jon, who was also in a suit, rolled his eyes and rubbed his chin. “Dad said I was beginning to look like a hobo.”

“You were,” Spencer noted. “But you look good.”

“Pleasing to your eye, Spence?” Jon asked with a sly smile.

“Something like that,” Spencer returned.

Brendon snorted. “God, it’s like you two are flirting.” He turned to the others and said, “So, who’s sitting where?”

He ended up sitting between Jon and Terry, their parents “mixing up the couples” over some more middle-aged small talk bullshit. Brendon rolled his eyes at Jon, who smirked back.

The waiter came around, and Grace said, “Double scotch, please.” Brendon instantly felt himself tense up, and he glanced across the table to where his mother was leaning towards Alistair, saying, “I’ve had such a long day.”

“Of course,” Alistair chuckled. “I’ll have one too.”

David cleared his throat. “I will have some Ecuadorian spring water.”

Brendon’s eyes connected with Spencer, who was sitting next to Alistair. Spencer’s eyes reflected Brendon’s unspoken unease. The waiter took their orders, and Spencer asked for the Tuscan salad without any dressing. Spencer was just going to eat rabbit food, then. Brendon wondered whether or not Spencer was throwing up behind his back.

When Brendon’s turn came, he said, “The fattiest vegetarian dish on the menu, please,” with a victorious look shot at Spencer.

Spencer cast him an angry look as the waiter blinked and said, “Oh. Um, any preference whether it is pasta or pizza?”

“Really doesn’t matter. Lots of calories and fat, please,” he informed him, and his party all chuckled slightly. Spencer shifted uncomfortably on his seat, and Brendon wished that it had been just the two of them so he could reach over, take Spencer’s hand and tell Spencer that he was beautiful, so fucking beautiful right then.

David and Terry started talking about President Obama’s term so far, and Brendon was happy he had Jon on his other side to talk to.

“My place was acceptable in the end,” Jon muttered. “Spick and span, and I did it all by myself. Ryan was supposed to help, but he didn’t at all. Just got out a book and kept going on and on about his friend Bill. I don’t even know who the hell that is.”

“This friend of his. A model, I think,” Brendon explained sourly. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said that Ryan was in love with this Bill. It was as if the two were suddenly attached from the hip. But it was okay. Brendon figured William was a pretty accessory Ryan would get bored of soon enough.

“Could I get another one?” Grace asked the waiter, lifting a now empty whisky glass.

“Honey, we’ve not even had starters yet,” David remarked. It didn’t come across as warm or endearing but sounded angry.

Grace’s smile faded. “I think I am allowed to, don’t you think?”

Her tone was so clearly malicious that the entire table went quiet for a split second.

“So, Dad tells me you put up a decent fight, David,” Jon cut in smoothly.

David instantly took the escape Jon offered. “Well, I tried! But playing with a professional, I really never stood a chance. Golf is an art form. It really is.”

Everyone exchanged polite chuckles, and Grace said nothing as she waited for her drink. Brendon could feel nervous tingling spreading in him, thinking not here, not now, for god’s sake. When they brought around the wine, Grace told the waitress to just leave the bottle with her. Brendon kept his eyes cast downwards, afraid to look at anyone. The atmosphere was tense, and neither Alistair nor Terry could chuckle it off, though they tried.

Grace didn’t bother the rest of them, though, just kept ordering a drink after another. Brendon cast a pleading look at Spencer, whose lips were firmly pursed, shoulders tense. Spencer looked back at him with the obvious message of, ‘What can I do?’

When they finally got the main courses, Grace began to participate in conversation again. “We just love having your boy around! Jon is such a polite young man!” she exclaimed, one hand on Jon’s arm as she smiled brightly. Jon looked slightly uncomfortable, perhaps a hint of a blush on his cheeks. Brendon wanted Grace to stop harassing his friend.

“Jon was always the sweetest boy growing up!” Terry piped in with motherly pride. “We are so proud of him. When he picked up guitar just like that, I told Alistair that the boy was special!”

“Played piano by ear by the time he was thirteen,” Alistair added in, and they both grinned at Jon. The Walkers were a cute family and seemed genuine. Brendon had never had that.

“It must be wonderful to have such a successful son!” Grace said, took a sip of red wine and added, “I’d like to know what that’s like.”

Brendon was sure his eyebrows lifted to his hairline as he was overtaken by surprise. Wow, so David wasn’t the only target tonight, was he? Okay then…

This time, Alistair tried to save the situation. “I must say that Jon seems very taken by them both. All we’ve heard this trip, really, isn’t that so, Terry? Spencer this, Spencer that, or –”

“Dad!” Jon interrupted. “You’re making me sound like a twelve-year-old,” he noted with a roll of his eyes.

“No, no!” Grace cut in. “Don’t hush your father! He takes notice of you, Jon! That’s the sign of a good parent, taking notice of your children. Really, Alistair, my David could pick a thing or two from you.”

“Grace. Could we perhaps talk about this later?” David hissed, not trying to cover up his aggressive tone. He was glaring at his wife, and Spencer’s eyes were fixed somewhere over Brendon’s shoulder, knuckles white around the fork he was holding. Brendon’s eyes kept darting to the guests, wondering what they were thinking, how humiliating this was, how embarrassing that they had to see this, that Jon was right there, witnessing this.

“When should we talk about it, David?” Grace spat, the alcohol intake showing clearly.

“Now, now,” Alistair attempted feebly, clearly uncomfortable.

“This is not the time or the place! Control yourself,” David hissed through gritted teeth.

“I will not!” Grace shouted, banging a skinny fist against the table. Grace stood up and began shouting across the table at David, a tragic drunken mess, and Brendon remained frozen, mortified. Two waiters burst in as a result of the shouting, maybe thinking something was horribly wrong with the food but, instead, finding a drunken celebrity having a go at her husband.

Grace had made the Top 30 of Cosmopolitan’s Most Beautiful People of 2004. She didn’t look beautiful when her face was distorted by anger.

Grace yelled, “A postnup! How dare you?!” and at least, now, Brendon knew what Burkhart had been working on.

The door to the restaurant was wide open as the waiters stared in astonishment, and people were looking in. Brendon buried his face in his hands and pretended he wasn’t there.

Well, he thought, maybe it was about time the world saw them for the bad actors they were.

* * *

Grace was drunk and pissed. Man, was she fucking _pissed_. Jon had never seen her like that, had never even guessed that she might have had such a side to her.

David had stood up as well and was yelling back at her, and Grace kept going on and on about a postnuptial agreement David was apparently trying to make her sign. Jon’s dad was sitting there in utter shock, and his mother was doing the same. Suddenly, Jon was happy he had a normal family.

“Close the doors!” David told one of the waiters, and the man obeyed, escaping from the room. “You’re causing a scene!” he told Grace.

“And what if I am?! You heartless man!” she shrieked.

Spencer shot up, voice so strained that Jon’s heart stung. “Could you please just stop?!”

“You stay out of this!” David shouted.

“Don’t yell at him!” Brendon cut in.

Suddenly, all the Smith-Uries were standing up and shouting, and Jon had no idea who was on whose side. Jon’s parents were exchanging shocked and disbelieving glances. Alistair said that perhaps they should get going, and Terry looked petrified sitting between David and Brendon shouting at each other. His mother’s eyes said, ‘Where did you find this freak show?’ Jon hadn’t known it was one.

“Go to your Hampton whores!” Grace shouted, taking her glass of wine and throwing the contents on David’s chest, drops splattering on the white table cloth, some of them even hitting Spencer.

“You stupid woman!” David yelled, absolutely enraged as he wiped the wine off of himself. “Look at yourself! You’re drunk and pathetic, Grace, yet again!”

Spencer was yelling for them to stop, Brendon was throwing more accusations into the mix, and suddenly, Grace was crying.

Jon’s dad stood up. “I think we’ll be leaving now. Terry, Jon,” he said commandingly.

“No! I’m leaving!” Grace declared, sobbing but still shouting defiantly. She turned around in a flicker of emerald, the hem of her dress flipping, and more chaos followed when David followed and attempted to stop her. Grace slapped David right on the cheek and wrenched the doors open, and Jon stared in shock. The entire shouting match moved into the actual restaurant, David attempting to pull Grace back. The rest poured out, following the couple, and Jon and Spencer were suddenly the last ones left in the room.

Spencer was pale. He was shaking. Jon kept blinking at the plates still full of food. He had known something was wrong for a long time but he had never, ever guessed that it was this bad.

“Um…” he began. Shit. What could he possibly say to that?

Spencer hurried out, not looking at him. Jon was hurting somewhere inside.

He hurried after him, and David and Grace were by the doors of the restaurant now, and the room full of people was staring at them in shock and fascination. His mother was staring at the display with her mouth open, and she turned to Jon. “Oh my god!”

Jon’s eyes scanned the room. “Where’s Spencer?”

“Oh my god, Jon!”

“Where did Spencer go?” he snapped impatiently, worried when he couldn’t see him anywhere. Brendon was looking around the room like a lost puppy, probably wondering the same.

The shouting echoed in Jon’s ears when he turned around, marching the opposite way. He pushed into the men’s room, the door banging against the wall from the unnecessary force he used. Spencer was by the sinks, leaning over them heavily, hands grabbing the marble edge.

“Spence, are you okay?” he asked as he hurried over. Spencer jolted as if hit by lightning, taking steps back.

“Leave me alone.”

“I just –”

“Leave me alone, Jon!” Spencer shouted, but it came out broken. He was heaving like he had run a mile.

Jon stopped approaching Spencer, lifting his hands defensively. Spencer paced, backing away, hands curled into fists. Spencer looked like he was about to punch something or someone.

“It’s okay,” Jon said soothingly.

“‘Okay’? It’s okay?!” Spencer repeated, motioning towards the door. “It – It’s all fucked up! It’s fucking over!”

Jon wasn’t going to say that, hey, all parents fought sometimes. Fighting was not the same as throwing wine and slapping and name calling. Spencer looked so angry. He was trembling, shoulders tense, knuckles white and eyes full of fury. Jon’s chest felt constricted right where his heart was, seeing Spencer’s blue eyes that fucking broken.

“I’m sure it’s –”

“No!” Spencer stopped him. “No, fuck them! Fuck them both! I tried so fucking hard. I _tried_! And if it’s not enough, then fuck them! Let them have their divorce! See if I care anymore!”

Jon said the only sensible thing he could think of.

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer stopped entirely, blinking at Jon when he heard the words. Spencer’s expression changed, the rage evaporating, and Jon suddenly felt like Spencer was about to break down any second. He hurried over to prevent Spencer from shattering into a million pieces, and Spencer tried to push him off, gaze averting.

Jon was shorter than Spencer, but he still felt taller when Spencer gave up fighting and buried his face in the crook of Jon’s neck. Jon felt the shivery breath as he wrapped one arm around Spencer, his other hand automatically moving to Spencer’s hair, petting gently.

“It’s okay,” Jon found himself cooing, closing his eyes and feeling Spencer press against him. He wrapped his arm more tightly around Spencer in some primitive gesture of trying to protect the younger man. Jon felt needed - he felt like Spencer _needed_ him - and he loved that. “Don’t get yourself so worked up,” he whispered.

Jon wanted to say that, suddenly, it all made sense to him, the unspoken tension that was omnipresent in the Smith-Urie household. It made sense, all the things Spencer had been keeping to himself.

“I tried to make it perfect,” Spencer said quietly and in defeat. “If they get a divorce, then what does that make me?”

Jon frowned but kept Spencer in his arms, running a hand up and down Spencer’s back. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

Spencer lifted his head and took a step back, but Jon didn’t want to let go, moving a hand to the back of Spencer’s neck, forcing Spencer to look at him. Spencer looked like maybe he wanted to cry but didn’t know how. Spencer’s eyes were dry.

“It’s my fault,” Spencer said lifelessly.

Jon realised that this was the first time Spencer had ever stood in front of him with no walls in between. Jon had never known how much he had yearned for it until then. Spencer was even more beautiful when laid bare. Andy had told him to let things develop, see what happens, let it happen naturally. It felt perfectly natural now.

Jon didn’t have to lean up much as Spencer was standing with slouched shoulders. He kept his eyes on Spencer, feeling his insides tighten painfully, and inched closer. Spencer blinked, and Jon heard the air catching at Spencer’s throat. Jon licked his lips, pulling and tugging Spencer closer, and he wanted to say that Spencer had taken his breath away when he had first walked in earlier, wanted to say that Spencer took his breath away all the time now.

Spencer trembled beneath the touch of Jon’s fingers, looking scared and alert but so goddamn gorgeous, and Jon tilted his head as he leaned in to kiss him. Spencer’s eyes landed on Jon’s lips as his eyelids began to flutter shut.

The loud bang right outside the door couldn’t have mattered less to Jon, whose heart was glowing and flickering and bursting, but Spencer jerked back instantly, eyes wide, just as their lips had been about to touch.

Brendon burst in with hurried steps, and Jon couldn’t take his eyes off of Spencer, who in turn refused to look at him, backing away even more. Spencer looked taken aback, his cheeks rosy.

“Spence, there you are!”

Spencer stood straighter, the beautiful fragility disappearing, and Spencer was behind a million walls again. Jon wanted to tell Spencer not to do that.

Brendon looked distressed. “Dozens of paparazzi outside, they made a scene on the street, I – Fuck, I don’t know what I –”

“We’ll take the backdoor,” Spencer said.

“And go where?” Brendon asked desperately.

“My place,” Jon heard himself say. He just figured that the guys probably didn’t want to go home just then. He wanted Spencer to send him an appreciative smile, but there wasn’t one to be had.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here,” Spencer said, taking a hold of Brendon’s arm and pulling him out of the men’s room.

The three of them headed for the restaurant’s kitchen when Jon heard his mother call his name. “Where are you going?” she asked disapprovingly, hands on her hips.

“I’m gonna…” he said, motioning at Spencer and Brendon. “I gotta,” he said apologetically, flashing her a sheepish smile, hoping it would suffice. Terry obviously disapproved, her expression slightly put off. Jon was choosing friends over family, but what did she expect? Jon saw his parents a few times a year. He had flown out of the nest, and he had flown far. He had his gang. He wished he had Spencer. He didn’t expect his parents to understand.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said before rushing after the twins, into the hot like hell kitchen of the restaurant as someone pointed them to the backdoor.

It was a race between them and the starving paparazzi. The back alley they walked out on was deserted apart from a chef smoking a cigarette in a bored manner. Jon felt like James Bond as they jogged towards the street, the three of them in their expensive suits. Except that, well, guns were cameras and mafiosos were journalists.

“I’ll hail us a taxi,” Jon offered, and Brendon and Spencer stayed in the shadows of the alleyway, waiting. Jon sneaked a glance at the restaurant door when he walked out, and holy _fuck_ , that was a lot of photographers. Fifteen of them, at least. They came in packs, it seemed. “Taxi!” he called out, holding out his hand nervously, making sure to keep his back to the restaurant.

“Hey! Jon Walker!” someone called just as a taxi pulled over, and Jon automatically turned to the sound of his name. Big mistake. Three photographers surged forward from the crowd, probably those who knew Jon was friends with the boys.

Jon pulled open the door before the taxi had properly even stopped, shouting, “Get in here!”

Brendon and Spencer ran for the taxi, dignity long forgotten, and at the sight of them, the rest of the paparazzi surged forwards.

“Brendon! Spencer! Any comments? Brendon!”

“Is it true David is having an affair?”

“Has there been any domestic violence?”

“Spencer!”

“Brendon!”

“How do _you_ feel about this?”

Jon managed to get in the car after his friends, slamming the door closed, and Spencer yelled, “Drive!”

The cameras were pushed right up to the car window, flashing and blinding. Jon shielded his eyes as his friends hid their faces the best they could. The driver took off, and Jon was out of breath, asking, “Everyone okay? Are we cool?”

Spencer shot a glare at him, and that was not the Spencer who had let Jon hold him close. “Fuck,” Jon muttered but wasn’t sure what he was referring to. He gave the driver the address and leaned back, keeping his eyes closed to fight off a headache.

“Is this it?” Brendon asked lifelessly between them. “The beginning of the end.”

Spencer wrapped an arm around Brendon’s shoulders, and that’s when it clicked why the other Spencer had disappeared. Spencer was trying to take care of Brendon. And that was all fine, Jon could get that, but Spencer had to let Jon do his share. Jon just wanted to make sure Spencer was okay.

Brendon sighed and leaned into Spencer.

“It’s okay. Just a small scandal, nothing we can’t manage,” Spencer said quietly. His voice was raw. “We’ll be okay, Bren.”

“Okay,” Brendon muttered, burying even more into Spencer.

Spencer looked at Jon, but Jon stared him down. Spencer could glare and cover up all he wanted, but Jon had seen him now. Jon had seen Spencer.

Spencer looked away, maybe ashamed.

“Hey,” Jon whispered, and Brendon kept himself tucked away in Spencer’s hold, but Spencer looked back at Jon with sad eyes.

Jon knew what Spencer was trying to say, that this wasn’t the beginning of the end.

No, it had started a long, long time ago, and now, it had finally exploded in their hands.  



	18. Urie Fury

_Urie Fury_

Ryan looked up from the paper at Brendon and Spencer. “Well, at least they came up with a snappy title.”

No one chuckled. Ryan admitted his loss with that one.

The trash magazine had given the restaurant incident an entire two pages with elaborate pictures. There was a series of three pictures, demonstrating Grace yelling at David outside the restaurant as David attempted to pull her back inside.

 _According to eyewitnesses, the former Miss USA threw wine on her husband_ , a caption said, and in the picture above, they had circled red stains on David’s shirt to illustrate the point. There was also a picture of Jon, Brendon and Spencer sitting in the backseat of a taxi, the camera’s flash shining back from the car window as they were trying to hide their faces, and beneath it read, _Sons Brendon and Spencer fled the scene, refusing to comment_. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The magazines were throwing words such as ‘alcoholism’, ‘mental problems’, ‘complete breakdown’ and ‘divorce’ into the mix.

Ryan didn’t know which parts were true. He hadn’t had a clue. You’d think that, from all the time he had spent observing Brendon Urie, he would have picked up that something was wrong. He never had.

“I mean, the cool thing about it is that we have the condo to ourselves,” Brendon said, trying to make a joke out of it. “David’s staying at the Four Seasons, and…”

“Hilton. I think Grace is staying at the Hilton,” Spencer filled in.

Ryan nodded. He had good memories of those hotels: meeting Peach, getting some precious cocaine. Good, good memories.

“Well, shit,” Ryan muttered and shifted in the armchair. “Um, sorry. And stuff.”

Ryan had never been too fantastic with sympathising. When his grandfather had died, he had been unable to say a simple “My condolences” to his grandmother. He remembered looking at her tear-laced face, and it had been on his tongue, right there, but he hadn’t known how. He hadn’t wanted to sound insincere.

“I like it better this way. Maybe,” Brendon muttered, scratching his chin uncertainly. The stepbrothers were curled up together on the couch, as if trying to keep each other warm. “Just, well, the atmosphere is more genuine now. They’re not pretending to be happy anymore.”

Ryan hadn’t known they had been pretending. God, he was a shitty friend as well as a recovering drug addict.

“Do you think it’s permanent?”

Spencer let out a deep breath. He had circles around his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping much lately. Spencer said, “I hope not,” just as Brendon said, “I hope so.”

The two men looked at each other in surprise. “You _want_ them to get a divorce?” Spencer blinked.

Brendon shrugged. “Well, I just… Wouldn’t it be for the better, like –”

“It’s our family, Bren!”

“How much of a family has it ever been?”

“Ten years! How the hell can you –”

“Stop bickering like two chicks. Fucking Christ,” Ryan intervened with a roll of his eyes. He cared; he always had. He was just really good at covering it up.

Spencer looked upset but only leaned back into the couch. Brendon looked guilty.

Ryan was pretty sure his parents hadn’t fucked in over five years, but they still weren’t on the brink of divorce either.

“I’ll make some popcorn. Ryan, help me?” Brendon asked as he stood up, and Ryan nodded, following the younger man to the kitchen. It took them ten minutes to figure out how to work the popcorn machine. Ryan had never even used it before.

Eventually, the three of them settled in the living room to watch Amélie. “The French make everything sexier,” Ryan reasoned.

He was watching a movie and eating popcorn with Brendon and Spencer. What the fuck had happened? Why were they not in clubs, being the centre of attention like they used to have been? It was all messed up. Damn addictive drugs. Damn public scandals. Damn their shame and unspoken need to hide.

At least Ryan wasn’t alone.

“The thing that pisses me off is the way the press won’t leave us alone,” Spencer muttered ten minutes in, refusing to take any popcorn, though Brendon kept offering. “It’s like we’re the hottest thing since Brangelina.”

“You know what we are? We’re like, Spendon. Or Brencer,” Brendon mused.

“We’re two rich kids with fucked up parents,” Spencer said bitterly.

Ryan’s phone vibrated, and he got it out, finding yet another text from William. William had been texting him all day, and this time with, _Allergic to nuts?_ Ryan felt like sending back something with incredibly lame sexual innuendos but decided against it. He texted back _Nope_ , and Brendon nudged his side.

“Pay attention to the movie!”

“Yeah, yeah. Bill just keeps texting me. I’m starting to think he’s planning on poisoning me or some shit.”

“Bill as in William?” Spencer cut in, and Ryan nodded. “I like him. You hang out with him and all?”

“Going over to his place for dinner tonight,” Ryan explained and slid the phone back into his jean pocket.

“So, is he into men?” Spencer asked. Ryan had told Spencer he was gay a few days ago, and Spencer had been awkward about it before saying that in the bigger scheme of things it probably wasn’t that significant and had shrugged it off like he didn’t particularly care. Jon had been right; the gang seemed willing to back him up. Brendon remained as the one who had taken the news the worst.

Ryan was only a little offended that his sexual orientation hadn’t caused a tidal wave, a tornado, or something – anything – _bigger_.

“What does it matter if Bill’s into men? It’s not a fucking date. It’s dinner,” Ryan snapped impatiently. In truth, Ryan kept wondering whether or not it was a date. He wasn’t entirely sure. William had never, ever made a move on him so it might not be a date. Still, William probably thought Ryan was a hot piece of ass. How could he not? Ryan was prime meat.

Ryan didn’t have a damn clue how he’d react to a date. That would make things weird for him and William because Ryan wasn’t interested. He was pretty sure he wasn’t interested.

When the heroine of the movie finally got her shit together and ended up with the guy from the porn shop (the French knew about romance too), Brendon turned to Ryan, lips puckered, and said, “Smooch!”

Ryan laughed and leaned over to press their lips together. “You guys,” Spencer whined disdainfully. Ryan could get why it was gross for Spencer.

Brendon’s lips were soft and tasted of popcorn. “Hmm,” Ryan grinned, tilting his head slightly.

“Hmm,” Brendon agreed, opening his mouth for Ryan. The kiss was slow, and Ryan moved to cup Brendon’s face and pull him closer as their tongues worked together. His insides kept twisting and turning as a warm fire spread inside him.

“I so don’t need to see this shit,” Spencer muttered.

Brendon chuckled deep in his throat, and Ryan’s heart skipped a beat. Spencer shoved Brendon, causing Brendon to fall forwards. Their teeth clicked together, and Brendon pulled back, wiping his mouth. He looked over his shoulder at Spencer. “You suck.”

“Swallow too,” Spencer said automatically.

Brendon rolled his eyes and settled back on the couch. Ryan sat a bit closer to Brendon for the remaining length of the movie, during which William texted him to ask if he was okay with garlic and making sure he wasn’t allergic to spinach. Could you even be allergic to spinach?

When the movie finished, Brendon was stuffing his mouth with the popcorn seeds that hadn’t popped. Spencer got up and asked for the time.

“Quarter to six,” Ryan said, checking the wristwatch Brendon had given him. He wore it all the time now. It reminded him of Brendon, how Brendon had given it to him as a gift for quitting cocaine. Brendon had said that he liked Ryan better when he wasn’t on coke, how he liked Ryan’s company better that way. The watch reminded him of Brendon’s words, how Brendon cared. Ryan always wore it. It was like Brendon was with him even when he wasn’t.

“I gotta go,” Spencer said.

“What? Where?” Brendon frowned instantly.

“Just Jon’s. I forgot my tie there.”

Ryan nodded, recalling how Brendon and Spencer had taken refuge at Jon’s for an entire two days after the restaurant incident. The paparazzi outside their Fifth Avenue building had been waiting around in vain.

“Knowing Jon, he’s already used it for tying up a groupie or another,” Ryan said, and Brendon instantly snickered.

“Dude, totally.”

“Well, if he has, then I will make him buy me a new one,” Spencer reasoned, seemingly not amused.

“You gonna go too?” Ryan asked Brendon, because these days BrendonandSpencer was in full force. Ryan figured it made sense, seeing as their parents’ marriage was falling apart. It’d be so weird if the two would no longer be stepbrothers. Though, well, Grace would still be their mother, or something. Ryan wasn’t sure how it’d work out.

“You don’t have to come along,” Spencer said before Brendon could say either/or. “It won’t take me long. I’ll just see you home later, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.”

After Spencer had left, they went to the kitchen to make some more popcorn. Ryan was developing an oral fixation. No cigarettes or joints, so he had ended up chewing his nails in their absence. Popcorn would stop him from biting his nails to the point of bleeding.

Brendon hopped to sit on the counter, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s so fucked up, man.”

“Yeah, seems like it. You talked to your parents at all?”

“I am so staying out of it. I don’t wanna be dragged into it. Not again. Not anymore.”

Ryan frowned, listening to the popcorn popping. “Not anymore? They don’t get divorced on a regular basis, do they?” He kept his eyes on the popcorn maker, and it took him a second to realise that Brendon had gone quiet. He looked up to see Brendon almost glaring at him. “What?”

“John Lawson, Boyd Morris, Sam Perry, Roger Shelton and David Smith,” Brendon listed, his tone just slightly bitter.

Ryan blinked.

Grace’s husbands thus far. Shit.

“Sorry man, I didn’t mean, like –”

“Just because my mother’s not gone around whoring in a few years doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten how, when I was a kid, I wasn’t even entirely sure which one had been my dad.”

Ryan nodded, biting on his bottom lip. Brendon’s childhood had been a fucked up dance between marriage and divorce. It hurt Ryan a little to think about it, made him want to put his arms around Brendon and hold him close. It wasn’t often that Ryan noticed anything broken in Brendon, so when he saw a glimpse of it, he wanted to fix it. Maybe that way Brendon would fall in love with him.

“Did you… just call your mother a whore?” Ryan asked eventually, slightly amused.

“I don’t care what she is,” Brendon said. “Just a woman who has been around every now and then throughout my life.”

“She gave you birth. I always thought that meant you kinda had to love them, you know?” Ryan shrugged. He loved his parents on some subconscious level. It wasn’t as if he hated them either.

He turned off the popcorn machine as Brendon said, “She’s just not meant for relationships, I guess. She’s incompatible. And, like, the alcohol?”

“That’s true, then?”

Brendon shrugged as Ryan offered him freshly made popcorn. “Well, she… could cut down on the drinking, yeah. But you know how they say it’s in the genes? Shit like that? What if it means I’ll go through the same shit, you know?” Brendon asked and took a handful from the popcorn bowl. He looked genuinely troubled, feet dangling in the air slightly. “I don’t want to become an alcoholic. I don’t want to become someone who doesn’t even know how to love someone. I’m not like her.”

“I never said you were. No one’s saying that.”

Brendon sighed and let the soles of his shoes kick against the cupboard door. “Like, I _want_ to have loving and meaningful relationships, you know?”

Ryan looked down to the bowl of popcorn, nodding. He kept biting the inside of his cheek. How fucking ironic was it that Brendon was saying this shit to him?

“What do you think love is?” he asked. He was curious.

“Easy,” Brendon said, sliding off the counter. “Love is making someone feel beautiful all the time.”

Brendon gave him a smile that might have been sad, that might have said that Brendon knew about heartache. The kid didn’t have a clue, but it was clear enough Brendon would have disagreed with Ryan on that. Brendon Urie could have anyone, yet he had never wished to exercise that right. What could he possibly know about love?

“Let’s watch another movie,” Brendon suggested, taking the bowl from Ryan.

“I actually should start getting ready. I have to leave for Bill’s soon,” Ryan reminded him. William was excited about the dinner, had been talking about it ever since they had come up with it. It was endearing.

Brendon said a simple, “Oh.”

Ryan paused to study the frown on Brendon’s face. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

Brendon shrugged slightly. “I just, like, don’t really know him. And all the models I’ve ever known have been narcissists.”

“Models?”

Brendon just nodded, taking some more popcorn. “William –” Ryan began in amusement, about to say that William wasn’t a model, he was a fitness instructor/receptionist at their gym. But then he didn’t say it.

William was just some poor kid. Hell, William lived in Brooklyn. He was a stunning man, could be a model for sure, but at the end of the day was just your average Joe. Ryan and his gang were extraordinary people who rarely mingled with those who were not. William had no money, fame or power. When Ryan remembered that, he wondered why he was even hanging out with William. What was there to gain? He was going down the social ladder instead of going up. But he hung out with William nonetheless. And if Brendon thought William was a model, why correct him? Ryan would gain prestige if he let Brendon keep the illusion of William being a model.

Suicide wasn’t sexy, overdosing wasn’t sexy, being gay wasn’t sexy. Ryan had been getting away with a lot recently, and he wasn’t sure if he could pull off a lower class nobody as his newest friend.

“Bill hasn’t let it gone to his head,” is all he said in the end.

Brendon followed Ryan to the bedroom where Ryan began to decide what to wear. Brendon munched on popcorns and sat on the bed, and Ryan told him not to leave crumbs everywhere. William sent yet another text, saying, _Just put the masterpiece in the oven! See you in a bit!_ Ryan smiled as he read it. How could someone be just that sincere and show their enthusiasm without reservations?

“Hey, Ry?” Brendon asked as Ryan pulled a shirt over his head. He hummed, and Brendon said, “We should hang out tonight.”

“Can’t, I’m –”

“I know. Cancel it.”

Ryan frowned as he went to his dresser, running fingers through his hair. “That’d be incredibly rude.”

Brendon walked over, wrapping arms around his middle from behind. Ryan felt his heart skip.

“Come on,” Brendon murmured against the back of his neck. Ryan made a disagreeing sound, and Brendon snaked a hand to his pocket, stealing his Sidekick. Ryan swirled around to retrieve it, but Brendon jumped out of his reach with a smirk.

“Hey!” he objected when Brendon turned the Sidekick off.

“There, switched it off. See? That simple.”

“I have made plans, and –”

“My parents might be divorcing, and you’re not even gonna let me talk about it? Instead, you’re gonna ditch me for some guy you barely know?”

“That’s bullshit.”

Brendon let his mouth drop open. “Well, fuck. It’s nice to know how much our friendship means to you,” he muttered disbelievingly. Ryan hesitated. He had been looking forward to dinner with William. But this was Brendon, his Brendon.

“Well, I mean… I guess if I call him and –”

“You don’t need to do that,” Brendon said dismissively, stepping away as Ryan tried to reach for the Sidekick again. Brendon slid the device into his pocket and smiled. “So. Another movie?”

“You said you wanted to talk.”

“Talk later,” Brendon said. But once they got on the couch, Brendon cuddled right to him. Ryan kept an arm around Brendon’s shoulders, placing a kiss on the top of Brendon’s head. Brendon smiled at him.

Ryan kept wondering if William was calling him, standing in the kitchen of his place, watching the food getting cold, annoyed by the voicemail he kept receiving. But what was a fitness instructor in Brooklyn compared to Brendon Urie practically sitting in his lap?

The way Brendon smiled left Ryan light-headed every single time.

Brendon pulled on his bottom lip when the movie got to the scary part, and Ryan thought that Brendon must have been right. Love was making someone feel beautiful, and Brendon had never looked as gorgeous as he did then.

* * *

Jon opened the door in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet, beads still dripping onto his bare shoulders, and Spencer did not stare. He did not stare at all.

Jon looked surprised, worried and pleased, and Spencer wondered how it was even possible to be all three at once. “Didn’t expect to see you,” Jon said softly.

Spencer’s eyes darted down, to the V of Jon’s hips, the trail of body hair disappearing beneath the towel. When he looked back up, his throat dry, Jon was still smiling warmly, like he was happy to see Spencer, but now with a bit of a smirk as well.

“Aren’t you gonna let me in?” he asked, trying to sound as composed as possible. Jon took a step back to make way, and Spencer kept his eyes on something other than all the exposed skin his fingers itched to touch.

They shouldn’t have been itching.

They went to the living room, and Spencer kept ignoring Jon’s stare. Lately, Jon just looked at him a lot. The two nights he and Brendon had crashed at Jon’s had been indescribable hell because there was nowhere to escape it. Jon had slept in his room, Brendon had crashed on the living room couch and Spencer on the music room couch, and even then, Spencer had woken up in the middle of the night to find Jon standing in the middle of the room, fucking staring at him before muttering that he had only come to get his banjo. At four fucking AM.

Spencer hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after that.

“How are things?” Jon asked, stupidly scantily-clad. Spencer could pull that towel off those hips, and Jon would be naked in front of him.

“Good. I forgot my tie here. Know where it is?”

“No,” Jon said, and Spencer sighed in defeat and forced to keep his eyes on Jon’s face, not on the glorious, pale skin presented to him. “Seriously. Are things okay? Do you wanna talk or anything?”

“Not really, I just want that tie. I bought it in Buenos Aires,” Spencer explained. Jon walked closer, and Spencer’s eyes roamed over Jon’s features again. The man was too good-looking for his own good.

Jon stopped, as if finally catching on. Jon broke into a full out grin. “So. Did you always find me incredibly attractive, Spencer, or did you notice that only after we started fucking?”

“You’ve gotten so cocky,” he said disdainfully before realising he should have denied that he found Jon attractive at all.

“Well?” Jon pressed teasingly, but beyond the playful tone, Jon’s gaze was consuming. Spencer felt like no one had ever studied him with such interest before.

“I always _acknowledged_ your good looks, but I certainly never wanked over you.”

“Aw,” Jon said in disappointment, and Spencer rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Do you wank over me now?”

Yes, he did, with his fingers buried deep inside himself and his hips snapping upwards.

“In your dreams,” Spencer sighed to indicate he was bored of the topic. “So. No tie?”

“Just buy a new one with that ten grand I gave you. Assuming you still have some left,” Jon pointed out with a chuckle. Fuck, Skinny. Spencer should do something about that. He should, he...

“Well, you certainly didn’t come over to talk, and I’m guessing you didn’t come here for a tie either, did you?” Jon asked deviously, walking closer. Spencer kept his lips pursed together. He wasn’t there to fuck. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t there to let Jon tie him down and make him forget all the bullshit he had to endure. Jon flirting and wearing nothing but a towel wasn’t exactly very helpful.

Spencer needed to talk to Jon about this… thing Jon seemed to think they had. There was no thing; it was just sex. Jon had to stop looking at him like that, like Spencer was the best thing since sliced bread. It wasn’t cute or adorable; it was disturbing. It disturbed Spencer, and he was there for his stupid tie, really he was.

When Jon was close enough, Spencer’s treacherous hands reached out to tug at the towel, which dropped and pooled around Jon’s ankles. Jon was hard, his cock proudly curved and beautiful, and Spencer’s fingertips tingled.

“Well,” Jon said quietly, seemingly not at all self-conscious. Spencer wanted to make bitchy remarks that Jon was hard from his mere presence, but that comment would backfire instantly as Spencer’s own cock felt trapped in the confines of his jeans.

The world hated Spencer. Since when could Jon Walker make him this hard without even touching him?

Jon just glanced down at his flushed cock before looking at Spencer with nearly black eyes. “You want me in you.”

It wasn’t a question. Spencer didn’t say anything, didn’t confirm or deny, but he felt his stomach drop.

“The bed,” Jon ordered firmly.

They had fucked in the kitchen, the music room, the living room, the bathroom. Jon liked fucking all over the apartment. Spencer had refused to fuck out on the balcony, though. It was still kind of fucking cold out.

Spencer’s feet led him to the bedroom, unbuttoning his jacket as he went along. Now that he was here and, well, they were both hard, they might as well fuck. What was friends-with-benefits if Spencer didn’t use those benefits?

Jon followed him and caught him off guard, hands on his hips turning them face to face. Jon pushed him on the bed, hands sliding the jacket off his shoulders. Spencer felt his breath leave him in a tiny gasp. He always undressed himself. They didn’t undress each other; that’s not how the ruthless fucking worked.

Spencer’s heart pounded fast, as if trapped beneath his ribcage. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his brain unwilling to function. He stayed still, letting Jon move his limbs like those of a marionette. Jon soon had him shirtless and the zipper of his jeans down. Jon’s hand snaked inside, under his boxers, and cupped his erection. Spencer bit on his bottom lip and breathed out through his nose.

Jon, so perfectly naked, had straddled him, lips on his collarbone. Jon bit him there, and usually, there was no contact before Spencer was tied down and unable to move. Spencer wasn’t used to Jon’s lips on him. He had been thinking that maybe Jon would use rope this time, tie the thick strips around his wrists and neck like that one time, when moving his hands had constricted the rope around his neck, and he had needed to stay so, so still to keep from choking as Jon had fucked him. That had been good, fuck, that had been _good_. But this, Jon rubbing his cock and Jon’s lips on his neck, this kind of felt amazing too.

“If you ever wanna talk,” Jon said, moving to suck Spencer’s earlobe between his teeth, and Spencer whimpered, because oh, oh. His body pushed into Jon’s touch like a flower bending to sunlight. “I’m here,” Jon finished huskily. “If you ever wanna talk.”

Jon’s hand left the confines of his jeans to tug them down more. Spencer helped Jon undress him all the way, and then Jon was back on him, Jon’s mouth and lips on his neck and jaw, precise and hungry.

“There’s nothing here,” Spencer said breathlessly as his head kept swimming. Jon hummed in question against his Adam’s apple. “Between us,” he clarified. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jon’s lips left his skin, and Jon pulled back. His lips were shiny, his eyes dark.

“Means nothing to me either,” Jon whispered, fingers curling around Spencer’s throat, applying enough pressure to make breathing difficult. Spencer heard his blood pounding in his ears. He stayed still, staring back. Jon’s fingers curled even more, slow and deliberate. Spencer couldn’t get oxygen in, and he felt his throat convulse. He stayed still. His cock throbbed. He wanted Jon to see how much he trusted him.

“Means nothing,” Jon whispered, and Spencer was beginning to feel woozy. Jon let go when he least expected it, and he gasped in a breath. Jon bit the side of his neck and travelled down his body.

Jon had sucked him off once, back on Valentine’s Day, and this was the second time Jon’s lips wrapped around his cock. Spencer moaned at the back of his throat, hands automatically moving to fist Jon’s hair. He pushed his cock further into the wet mouth, feeling the hot, wet slide of Jon’s tongue. Jon sucked around him, the suction making Spencer’s toes curl. He pressed back against the mattress, relaxing into it.

Jon hooked his arms beneath Spencer’s legs, pulling him closer and making it impossible for him to move. Spencer was breathless as he looked down to watch Jon, whose lips were stretched around his cock. Jon was fucking him with his mouth, and Spencer fisted the sheets. Oh fuck, oh god –

Jon swirled his tongue around the head of Spencer’s cock, and Spencer had to suck in a breath. Fuck.

“I wanna try something new,” Jon said, his voice just a bit rough. Jon’s tongue rubbed against the slit of his cock. He let out a choked sound and shuddered.

“’Kay. Fuck,” he replied hurriedly. If this was something new, Spencer liked the direction of it. He liked being spoiled like this, Jon’s mouth on him. Jon placed a kiss on his cock, leaving him throbbing and slick.

Jon rose to sit on his knees, reaching for the nightstand. Foreplay was done, then. Spencer began to turn around, to get on his hands and knees, but Jon grabbed his hips, stopping the movement.

“On your back,” Jon said. Spencer frowned slightly, but he was hard, so fucking turned on, his cock a bit shiny from Jon’s spit, so he didn’t question. Jon always took him from behind, but they were going to try something new. Okay. Spencer automatically lifted his hands above his head, to be tied to the headboard. But Jon just spread his legs, lube in one hand, and Spencer was confused as to why he still wasn’t tied down and treated like a cock-wanton whore.

“Why are –”

“Something new,” Jon said hurriedly, chest and cheeks flushed. “I thought it might be good without.”

Without?

The warmth kept pooling in Spencer’s stomach, and whenever Jon’s fingers touched his skin, it almost felt like small sparks of electricity travelling on his body. Jon pushed two slickened fingers in him, and Spencer was startled by how loud his moan was. There was nothing in his mouth this time to muffle the sounds.

He instantly tried to bite back the second moan when Jon’s two fingers went in knuckle deep, pushing against his insides.

“Don’t,” Jon said, voice completely breathless. “Let me hear you.” Jon sounded nearly desperate, and Spencer’s stomach dropped.

His mind raced for a second, but then the calloused tips of Jon’s fingers pushed against his prostate. Spencer’s entire body reacted, his hips snapping upwards. “Fuck. Oh _fuck_ ,” he blurted out, his unbound hands wanting to take hold of Jon’s hand working between his spread legs and fuck the fingers that were in him.

“Yeah,” Jon breathed, and Spencer hadn’t heard his voice like that before, like Jon was struggling to stay in control. Jon twisted the two digits in Spencer, sucking on a bit of skin on Spencer’s inner thigh. It was bound to leave a bruise, but Spencer spread his legs wider.

Spencer didn’t know how to fill the silence when Jon pulled his fingers out and began to put a condom on himself. He didn’t know what to do with his hands either, so he just closed his eyes. Trying something new was weird, but Spencer felt hot all over. His cock was fucking aching.

“This might be what I like the best,” Jon said above him. Jon’s lube slick fingers brushed Spencer’s stomach, dancing downwards over his cock and balls to his entrance, leaving a wet trail behind. Jon rubbed more lube on Spencer and clarified, “This. Seeing you stretched… widened… ready for me.”

There was a bit of awe in Jon’s voice. Spencer’s cock twitched.

“Do you have a favourite part?” Jon asked, and Spencer thought that this was sex, not exchanging opinions or feelings or anything that wasn’t body heat and fluids.

“The part where you fuck me,” Spencer said pointedly, keeping his eyes closed. Jon chuckled, low and masculine, and Spencer could feel warmth in him pulsate at the sound.

Jon positioned himself, the pressure in itself enough to make Spencer bite on his bottom lip. Jon pushed in slowly, the tip of his cock stretching Spencer open even more. It always stung a little bit, but Spencer liked that. His back arched into it, and he felt his bones melt. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, followed by a gasp as Jon slid in further.

Jon leaned over him once he was in all the way, grabbing Spencer’s hips with a bruising hold. Spencer felt breathless and light-headed and fucking full. He had never thought of himself as much of a bottom, but that was before Jon had explained the drug of giving power to someone else. Spencer wanted Jon to use his body for pleasure, wanted Jon to push into him until they both got off on it. Jon’s lips found his collarbone again, tongue flicking over and lips latching onto it, sucking as he began a slow rhythm.

Spencer didn’t know what to do with his limbs. He fisted the sheets, his hips slowly cradling to the slide of Jon into him, pushing him open on every thrust. Jon let out a breathless moan, and Spencer kept biting his own tongue to muffle the sounds he made. His cock kept brushing Jon’s stomach, and he was embarrassed that he was as hard as he was, already trying to control himself.

Jon kept the rhythm slow, hot breath washing over Spencer’s neck. Spencer screwed his eyes shut. Fuck, it felt good, but he felt stupid staying still like a statue.

“Spence,” Jon’s voice came, completely wretched. “Spence, _touch me_.”

Spencer’s heart jumped to his throat, for the first time ever receiving a request. Jon always ordered him, but now, Jon’s tone was nearly begging. Jon’s fingers were running down his arms to his clutched fists, helping Spencer loosen his fingers. Spencer let Jon guide his hands, one at a time, until his hands were on Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s skin was warm and sweaty and just- just radiating, and Spencer let his fingers dig in. Jon made a tiny sound and moved in harder.

Once he had his hands on Jon, it clicked. His other leg wrapped around Jon’s waist, the heel digging into the small of Jon’s back. Jon was closer, closer than before, and Spencer was gasping into the air as his hands traced the features of Jon’s body, over the strained muscles and jutting out bones, constantly changing as they began to move together.

The rhythm was slow, but every thrust was hard, their gasps mixing together. Spencer was letting himself pull Jon in closer for more of the contact, more of Jon’s cock dragging in him. Jon’s breath was ghosting over his cheek, his forehead pressing against the side of Spencer’s face. Each sound and touch was amplified, and Spencer pushed upwards to fuck Jon the best he could.

“I wanna hear you,” Jon said, thrusting in almost brutally to make a point.

“Fuck,” Spencer groaned, his insides tightening with every push and pull. “Oh fuck, Jon. Fuck, it’s really fucking good, it’s –”

His eyes fluttered shut, head tilting towards Jon. He felt as far gone as he sounded, swear words leaving his lips mixed with just how fucking good Jon felt. Jon’s lips were resting on the corner of his mouth, their breaths mixing together. Spencer noticed them breathing in and out simultaneously, Jon’s nose brushing against his own. Jon was so, so close.

Spencer’s lips parted, feeling Jon’s mouth hover just above his own. Suddenly, his heart found a whole new speed, pushing warmth and adrenalin and something fuzzy into his body. The sounds he made were matched by Jon’s low grunts, and Spencer’s hand flew down between their bodies to wrap around his leaking cock.

Jon’s forehead rested against his, and Spencer could feel the sweat. “How’s that feel? Touching yourself,” Jon rasped out like he really wanted to know, wanted Spencer to tell him every little detail.

Spencer whined slightly. “It’s, ah, fuck, it’s- ah, fucking amazing. You just –”

And Jon’s mouth was just there, ghosting over his, and Spencer’s free hand moved to the back of Jon’s head, fingers twisting in the short hair, and he pulled Jon down.

Their lips crashed together, and Jon stopped the continuous movement of his hips. Jon’s tongue pushed into Spencer’s mouth hungrily.

Jon’s lips were wet and hot and soft, tasted a bit like Spencer, maybe, or maybe Spencer just liked to think so. His other hand moved up to cup the back of Jon’s neck, and they stayed still apart from their mouths, searching and bruising, and oh fucking _god_. Spencer was sure that, had he believed in the cliché of seeing fireworks, that was what he would have been seeing right then.

Spencer let his tongue trace Jon’s taste, unwilling and incapable of letting go of the connection of their mouths. Jon guided Spencer’s hand back between their bodies, and Spencer grabbed his throbbing cock. His mouth felt raw and swollen.

Jon began a rhythm again, and Spencer breathlessly mumbled, “I’m –” against Jon’s lips.

Jon pulled back, but Spencer only followed the lips he was seemingly addicted to, Jon’s mouth, soft and hot and at his disposal. “I wanna see,” Jon breathed, and Spencer almost shivered, because fuck, yeah, fuck that was fine with him.

Jon pulled himself up, on his knees between Spencer’s legs. He lifted Spencer’s hips off the mattress as he began to pound in hard. Jon’s lips were shiny, eyes dark, skin red and sweaty, and Spencer kept staring at him as he fisted his cock. Pre-come had dripped down, making his movements easy. The head of his cock felt overly sensitive from all the stimulation, Spencer’s balls tight and almost fucking aching, and he could feel the orgasm building up.

Jon’s cock slid in and out steadily, and Spencer bit his lip before remembering that Jon wanted to hear. His head rolled back and let himself moan, it was loud, but fuck, it was good.

“Fuck, Spence,” Jon breathed. “Look at me.”

Spencer forced his eyes open, looking straight at Jon who pushed into his willing, trembling body. Fuck, fuck –

“Oh fuck,” he gasped and was coming. He groaned, feeling Jon’s hand on the one he had around his cock. Spencer’s own come-stained hand fell to the side, and Jon stroked him through the rest of his orgasm. He felt his muscles squeeze and vibrate around Jon’s cock, and fuck, the way it made Jon sound, the way it –

He tugged Jon down from the wrist, and Jon’s mouth locked with his again. Spencer forced his hips up to meet Jon, ignoring his slicked up stomach and the way their fingers entwined.

“Come on,” he murmured against Jon’s mouth, their tongues sliding together fiercely. Jon gasped against Spencer’s lips as he came, hips thrusting sporadically. Jon buried his face in the crook of Spencer’s neck, moaning against the sweat-covered skin there.

Spencer blinked at the ceiling, arms protectively wrapping around Jon. Fuck. He exhaled, feeling boneless.

Jon pulled out once he had come down, reaching a hand between Spencer’s legs to brush his fingers against the widened entrance. Spencer bit on his lip to muffle a moan. God, he was going to be sore tomorrow.

Jon pulled the condom off, throwing it on the floor without tying it, and Spencer hated how Jon was such a slob. He hated how Jon lived off of pizza and beer, never had a damn clue what was fashionable, had an obsession with flip flops, was a complete music nerd and had never gotten past the twenty-fourth position in the Billboard charts, was never really quite cool enough when they were in public, and Jon was nothing _special_ , and that was just the top of Spencer’s list of things that ticked him off about Jon Walker.

His lips found Jon’s again, and Jon felt warm and good and nice on top of him, with their lips brushing together. Now, it was unhurried. It was soft and gentle.

Spencer hooked his calf over the back of Jon’s other knee, tangling with Jon as much as possible. “This doesn’t mean anything to me,” he repeated between deep kisses.

“Me neither,” Jon said, pressing their swollen lips together, his hands moving over Spencer’s skin soothingly.

Spencer wrapped his arms tighter around Jon’s shoulders. He was good where he was.  



	19. Freedom

Freedom.

David had come back to the condo one day, filled three suit cases, given Brendon’s shoulder a squeeze that might have meant ‘Better luck with your next stepdad’, but Brendon wasn’t entirely sure about that. David moved out. It wasn’t official, but how much more official was it going to get?

Brendon wasn’t happy and he wasn’t sad. But at least he was free.

Spencer wasn’t taking it well, and Grace was still hiding somewhere. Spencer was hardly ever around at all, and Brendon didn’t know where Spencer was spending his time. But Spencer had certain hang out spots, so Brendon headed for the gym. Spencer was addicted to those treadmills; it must have been stress relief of some kind. Besides, calling Spencer repeatedly had stopped being cool approximately three days ago. Brendon spent his time with Lucía, Tom and Ryan. The maid was going insane with worry, constantly giving Brendon sympathetic glances like her heart was breaking for him. Tom was willing to just roll with it all, playing pool and video games with Brendon, going out clubbing and one night emptying a whiskey bottle with him.

“This is the best job I’ve ever had,” Tom had laughed, and Brendon had given up on glasses and had been drinking from the bottle. Brendon had been on a bit of a roll, mostly because Spencer always got worried when he did anything in excess. Spencer had made sporadic appearances at the condo, to change clothes, sleep, and disappear again and not bat an eyelash at a hungover Brendon.

All the more reason for Brendon to try and find Spencer, except that Spencer had not been at the gym either.

“Has he been here this week at all?” Brendon asked the receptionist, using just the right amount of charm and authority to make the girl check the information for him.

“It says here that Mr. Smith last visited us two weeks ago,” she said and looked up from the screen.

“Right,” Brendon muttered. “Thanks.”

“We have the tennis court booked for you,” she added as Brendon turned to leave, but he didn’t feel like tennis right then. The last thing he wanted to do in his current state of just-a-bit-drunk was to drop the “just a bit” part of it.

The destruction of Grace and David’s relationship was supposed to bring him and Spencer closer together. And it had worked at first. It had worked flawlessly, and Spencer hadn’t left his side for days. But then Spencer had slipped right through his fingers.

“Not today,” Brendon told the receptionist, his heart feeling as heavy as his feet. He got to the door of the gym just as a familiar man marched in, and they both stopped at the sight of each other. “Hey there, William,” Brendon said easily.

William’s smile was stiff and forced. “Brendon.”

Fuck, did they go to the same gym? Of course, William was all into taking care of his body. Modelling was pretty much like prostitution when it came down to it.

“Gonna hit the treadmills, eh?” Brendon asked, eyeing the sports bag William had flung over his shoulder.

William looked slightly confused. “Um, no.”

Treadmills were probably too sweaty for William.

“Hey, you seen Ryan around?” Brendon asked, simply because he had seen Ryan in between his bar rounds (couldn’t have a recovering Ryan be in the room when Brendon was drowning his sorrows, and he was not like his mother, he was _not_ her), and Brendon was fairly certain that Ryan had had no time for Billy Boy at all.

William averted his gaze. “Haven’t seen Ryan in a while.”

“No? Oh. Well, I’ll tell him you say hi when I see him later,” Brendon said sweetly, and he couldn’t quite figure out why he disliked William so much.

“Bill, you’re late!” the receptionist called out, and Bill, eh? William was probably on friendly terms with the entire gym, worshipping his body on a daily basis, no doubt.

“Sorry, Caitlin. I’ll just get changed,” William said, and he seemed to hesitate before adding, “Yeah, um… tell Ryan I say hi.”

“Sure. Have a good work out,” Brendon nodded before strolling out, noting the confused look on William’s face. He wouldn’t pass on the greetings. The Rolls Royce was still parked out front, and Brendon slid to the backseat with a heavy sigh. If there was going to be a divorce, who would get the awesome cars?

Tom turned around in the driver’s seat. “No luck?”

“No luck. It’d help if Spencer had been asking you to drive him around, but if he hasn’t, well…”

“Spencer’s alright. He can take care of himself.”

Brendon knew that, but it was beside the point. Brendon _needed_ Spencer, and Spencer wasn’t there. Something was going on.

“You know what would take your mind off of things?” Tom suggested. “The best strip joint in New York.”

Brendon laughed. “You want to go see your girlfriend working?”

He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not Tom was dating Sapphire, but they definitely had a thing. Tom had ranted long and hard about how she had come clean about bruises or something alike, confessing that she did things for money sometimes, and Tom had had a minor breakdown and drunkenly _cried_ against Brendon’s shoulder, closely followed by Tom shouting how he would fucking kill men like that if he could, and then Tom had passed out. Brendon knew Tom remembered nothing of it. Tom wouldn’t have been suggesting that they go to the strip joint had he known that Brendon knew his girlfriend was a whore.

“She’s an erotic dancer,” Tom countered. “We all do different things for a living. Come on, they’ve got cheap drinks.”

Skinny owned the place. Still, Brendon had always enjoyed perfect anonymity there, and Spencer had said that the Skinny problem had been taken care of. And Brendon wanted to disappear, get drunk, become tragic and sad, not like his mother, but just enough to get Spencer to pay attention again.

It occurred to him that maybe Grace had done it all just to get David’s attention again. Maybe.

Well… it didn’t really matter anyway.

“Sure, man. Queens it is.”

Like always, they switched cars. Tom’s old vehicle didn’t attract any attention in Queens, and Brendon soon found himself perched down at the end of the strip joint’s bar, drowning cheap vodka shots as Ruby shed off her clothes on stage. Tom had disappeared with Sapphire. She had been beaming at them like Tom, indeed, could save her from her whore ways and lowlife habits.

Brendon had managed to down a few drinks when a fat man sat on the bar stool next to his. Brendon glanced to his side, knowing his features were hidden by the hoodie. Anonymous or not, he didn’t want to be recognised in a place like this. Brendon could feel unease trickling down his spine as Skinny said, “Lu, bring us beers,” and the bartender nodded.

Skinny turned around in the stool to look at Brendon. “You just keep coming back, don’t you?”

“Sadly, it’s not for your company,” Brendon shrugged drunkenly. He hadn’t forgotten how Skinny had threatened him, how Skinny’s men had cornered him and laid their hands on him. Brendon doubted they had the nerve to actually harm him, but it made him feel vulnerable nonetheless.

“I’m glad you decided to visit,” Skinny said, passing Brendon one of the beers the bartender placed in front of them. Brendon grudgingly took it, eyelids heavy. “I haven’t heard from your brother in a while.”

“Spencer hardly enjoyed your company enough to hang out with you on a regular basis.”

Skinny just chuckled, didn’t say anything for a while. Brendon sipped his beer, wishing Tom hadn’t gone to the back to exchange sweet nothings with Sapphire. Spencer and he had had a bodyguard once, when they were thirteen. The guy had been called Zack, and he had been an awesome guy, but they had hated being followed everywhere. Now Brendon wished they had never sacked the man because Brendon certainly would have felt safer with him around.

“I wanna show you something,” Skinny said, and warning bells were ringing loudly in his ears.

“I’m fine here, thanks.”

Skinny stood up from the stool, eyes never leaving Brendon’s face. “I wasn’t asking.”

Some kind of deity must have been on Brendon’s side because Tom tapped his shoulder and said, “Back! She has to go on soon.”

Skinny looked at Tom in surprise, and Brendon cut in, “We should just leave, man.”

Tom frowned, and did he _want_ to watch Sapphire strip to Rihanna? “But I –”

“No,” Brendon said, tipsy but not stupid, not being blind to the flash of danger, and god, it had been stupid coming here again. “Let’s go.” Brendon stood up and said, “Thanks for the beer, Ski –” but Skinny moved to grab his forearm painfully. The man looked furious, and thank god the bar area wasn’t completely deserted, thank god not.

“You little shits still owe me money, and I am fucking _sick_ of waiting around for it. I know all about your whore mother and cunt father, but don’t try using it as leverage. I don’t give a fuck about it or what you rich snobs cry yourselves to sleep over. I am done waiting,” Skinny hissed quietly, his hold of Brendon definitely bruising his skin.

Tom was staring at them in horror, and of course, Tom had no clue about the money Brendon had owed Skinny. _Had_ owed.

“Spencer’s paid up! Let go of me,” Brendon muttered back, not causing a scene and begging for Skinny not to call his men over and beat him up.

Skinny laughed. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Spencer _told_ me he’d take care of it,” Brendon repeated, because Spencer never let him down, and if Spencer said it was fine, then it was fine. There was nothing going on with Spencer that Brendon didn’t know, because they were soulmates, they were blood brothers, and Spencer had promised to take care of Skinny, so Brendon assumed he had. Spencer had told him not to worry.

“You still owe me seven grand. Don’t think I’m not fucking keeping count,” Skinny growled, his moustache nearly quivering in anger.

Brendon stared. That was not true. That was not true.

“You’re lying,” Brendon said, but it was a bit uncertain.

“Try me,” Skinny snapped.

“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll – I’ll write you a cheque. I’ll –”

“Cash, Urie. It’s gotta be cash. I think you need to be taught a lesson.”

No, really, no lesson needed, because Brendon was getting the message loud and clear. They had seven grand. Seven grand was _not_ that much. Why the fuck had Spencer not paid that? Why had Spencer lied to him? And it was fucked up, even Brendon knew it was, but he was almost more hurt over Spencer keeping things from him than he was worried about Skinny’s vendetta.

Skinny called out to a guy standing not too far away from them, a guy the size of Mt. Everest, and Brendon needed to get the fuck out of there. He pulled himself free of Skinny’s hold, and Skinny hissed, “Not so fast!” and moved to take hold of him again.

Brendon scrambled backwards, and Tom was looking around, bewildered and alert. “Fucking run!” Brendon told Tom, and Tom seemed to take the hint. They both ran for the door of the strip joint, and the bouncer instantly noticed them and blocked their way. Tom was Brendon’s superhero right when Tom elbowed the bouncer in the stomach. The man doubled over and cursed. Brendon looked at Tom, looked at Skinny, at Skinny’s men, and then he fled past Tom. Tom pushed the bouncer at the men trying to follow them out of the bar.

The sun was setting when Brendon burst through the doors and into the street. Tom was at his heels, yelling, “Catch!”

Brendon caught the car keys, running to where the old Ford was parked. They got in, Brendon’s hands shaking as he fumbled to start the engine. “Dude, what the fuck? What the _fuck_?” Tom panted, locking his door.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Brendon murmured, and the engine came to life just as Skinny’s men reached the car, banging the windows and yelling threats. Brendon put the car in reverse, smashing the rear to the car parked behind them.

“Fuck!” Tom swore, head spinning around.

Brendon changed gears frantically, and the car surged forward, hitting the car parked in front of them before Brendon managed to get the car back to the street, stepping on the accelerator instantly. From the review mirror, he could see the men run after them before stopping and throwing their hands up into the air.

“Oh fuck, man, that was too close!” Brendon groaned.

“What the hell happened?”

“Not now, not now!” he snapped, shaking his head, driving faster, ignoring red lights and taking a tight left, the entire car swinging slightly. “Oh god, oh fuck! How could Spencer not tell me?!”

“Do you owe Skinny money? Shit, man, that’s not good! That’s dangerous!”

Brendon turned to look at Tom. “You think I don’t know that?!”

“Why didn’t you say something? We didn’t have to go to his bar, man, we –”

“I thought it had been taken care of! I thought –”

“WATCH THE ROAD!”

Brendon’s head snapped to face the road, his brain signalling his foot to hit the brakes and steer left to avoid collision with the car coming at them. Brendon tensed and his mind screamed before matter hit matter. His body launched forward like he was nothing more than a dummy. He heard the shattering sound of glass. The airbag blew up.

Brendon exhaled.

It was quiet, so quiet. Everything was so still. The movement had stopped. He could feel his heart beating, and he was alive, he was still alive. He could feel all of his limbs, he was breathing and hearing and alive.

“Ow,” Tom’s voice came, and Brendon opened his eyes but the world was blurred. He felt something trickle down the side of his face: blood.

* * *

Jon had a lot of new things going on in his life. He was working on his new album with a new audio engineer, a new crew and a new studio. Hell, he even had a new guitar. He had new friends and new love interests, and he was somehow managing to make it all work together.

Spencer didn’t mind hanging out at the studio, and Jon’s crew didn’t mind one more face around. Spencer mostly sat on the couch of the control room, drinking black coffee and reading the book Jon had happened to give him on Valentine’s Day. Jon spent most of his time in the live room with the guys, working full hour days and recording.

Jon wasn’t sure whether Spencer wanted to be there or whether Spencer just didn’t want to be home. Either way, he liked having Spencer around.

They were all in the control room, Jon, a few of his friends and the engineer, listening to one of Jon’s songs. He had many of them. They were going to record all twenty or so, and Jon would figure out which ones would be on the album later.

“It sounds good,” Andy said, and Jon turned to Spencer.

“What do you think?”

“Huh?” Spencer asked, tearing his eyes off the page.

“Of the song.”

“Oh. Sounds good, yeah. Hey, did you know that Romulus Augustus wasn’t actually the last emperor in the west? That, even after 476, Julius Nepos, the deposed emperor, was just, like, hanging out in the Balkans and shit?”

Spencer’s eyes shone a bit as he said it, the interest and excitement obvious in his tone. Jon’s heart pulsed warmth at the sight, and he fought off a smile. “No, I didn’t know that.” He didn’t even know what the hell Spencer was talking about.

Spencer smiled a bit, hair falling in front of his eyes. Spencer was more into his book on the fall of the Roman Empire than he was into Jon’s album. Jon didn’t mind. Andy was frowning next to him and muttered, “That’s it? The song’s amazing.”

Jon just shrugged it off. Spencer was in the studio, and that was all that Jon wanted.

They were about to take a break and get pizza from the place across the street again. Andy went over what to bring everyone, and as they passed him some cash, Jon lowered his voice and said, “Bring Spencer a margherita.”

Andy glanced over to Spencer, who was engrossed in his book, not paying any attention to his surroundings. “Why? He never eats it anyway.”

“Just in case he wants some,” Jon shrugged, and Andy gave him a look that was somewhere in between pity and amusement.

The guys followed Andy out of the studio, all going out for a smoke. Jon let out a breath as the door closed after them, dropping down on the couch next to Spencer.

“My fingers are sore,” he said, examining the calloused tips.

Spencer looked up. “Where did the others go?”

“Dinner.”

“Ah,” Spencer said, closing the book. “Is it that late?”

Jon let his other elbow press against the back rest of the couch as he leaned over to brush hair from Spencer’s forehead. Spencer went stiff, but Jon smiled and said a simple, “Yeah.”

Andy knew they were fucking, but Jon was pretty sure no one else had a clue. Jon might be caught staring at Spencer, asking Spencer’s opinion on every track (and always receiving a disinterested hum that indicated approval), or Jon might do something else that he knew could have been suggestive. But Spencer did none of those things, his eyes never lingering on Jon. Jon didn’t mind that, didn’t mind the lack of touch and taste when they were in public. Jon wasn’t keen on everyone finding out he was not as straight as they thought.

Spencer had spent the previous night at Jon’s, and Jon had pretended to doze off once they had settled to sleep after the ridiculous, _amazing_ amount of sex, and it had been Spencer, not him, but Spencer who had pressed them together and wrapped arms around him. Jon knew better than to push it or rush it, because that would make Spencer run away. His plan was luring Spencer in so that, when Spencer one day realised what was happening, it’d be impossible for him to go anywhere else except Jon’s awaiting embrace. It was like hunting.

“I think maybe you should shave,” Jon said, and Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Dude, I’m getting a beard rash.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “You’re not.”

“Have you looked at my mouth? It’s not red from all the singing.”

Jon’s skin was irritated and pink around his lips. Spencer could deny it all he wanted, but they were sucking each other’s faces like two fifteen-year-olds. It was ridiculous, but Jon just _liked_ Spencer, liked everything about him, and there could be nothing wrong with that. He was mostly shocked that he had known Spencer for a long time but they weren’t doing any of this until now. Obviously, it was because Spencer was a guy, but so fucking what? He knew full fell that same-sex hook ups were hushed in their scene, yet it happened all the time. He didn’t lose sleep over being a freak. No one knew, and he was happy with his life.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know you’ll be getting a break from me for tonight,” Spencer said, and Jon figured his expression must have fallen pathetically as Spencer added, “Ryan invited me to go to a club with him. His first time going since rehab and he needs me to make sure he doesn’t fuck up.” Spencer sounded a bit sorry and shrugged, examining the cover of the book. “Couldn’t really turn it down.”

“No, yeah, I get that,” Jon nodded. “If I can convince Chris to stay on, we might even pull an all-nighter in the studio anyway.”

Jon wanted to say that he’d miss Spencer, because he would, but the comment would not go down well with Spencer.

“Is Brendon going with you guys?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know if Ryan asked him to come along or not, haven’t talked to him in a while,” Spencer said, falling silent. “Dad, um… picked up some of his stuff a few days ago. Moved out, I think. Said he is staying at a friend’s. Probably code for the woman he’s fucking.”

Spencer chuckled slightly, gaze fixed to the floor.

“Things will work out. They always do,” Jon said before adding, “And, you know, I could hook you up with some amazing apartments in the Village if you need to start looking.”

Spencer snorted. “Yeah, I’m not leaving the Upper East Side to get a slice of your bohemian rhapsody.”

Jon let his fingers graze the hair at the back of Spencer’s neck as his lips twisted up at the corners. “Music references in every day conversation already, Spence? We’ll make a pretentious music snob out of you in no time at all.”

Spencer scoffed, but Jon ignored him, knew that a lot of the time it was just best to ignore Spencer and his signals that now was not a good time. Spencer had been raised to view the world with contempt, and Jon knew they had a thing, more than just a thing, and he knew Spencer would view it with contempt too.

“C’mere,” he whispered, leaning in. Spencer gave him an obvious ‘what now?’ glare, but he exhaled softly as Jon leaned in for a kiss. Spencer automatically tilted his head and parted his lips, and Jon paid attention to the way Spencer’s hand rested on his knee when they kissed. Jon kept the kiss light and soft and smiled into it. Spencer’s fingers were digging into his knee. When he began to pull back, Spencer made a protesting sound. Jon tried not to grin too much.

When Andy came back with the pizzas, Spencer didn’t touch his. Andy gave Jon an ‘I told you so’ look, but Jon shrugged. More for all of them. He restrung his D-42 before heading back to the live room. Time always flew by when he was working on his music, and he didn’t count how many takes it took until he and Chris, the engineer, were happy with the guitar track. Chris showed a thumbs-up through the screen between the rooms. Jon gave a thumbs-up back before noting a tall, thin man standing behind Chris’s shoulder. Jon lifted his hand as a hello, and Ryan waved back.

New friends: Ryan. Well, fine, they had been friends for a long time too, but lately, they had even been hanging out, just the two of them. If Jon had had a shrink, they undoubtedly would have told him that perhaps Jon was hanging out with a gay guy to feel better about his own confused sexual orientation. Maybe.

He put the guitar down and went back to the control room where Spencer and Ryan were getting ready to leave. Chris and Andy were the only guys left, and Jon realised that it was getting late.

“Where’s the bathroom again?” Spencer asked, and Jon gave him directions, staring after Spencer only a little as he left.

“Let’s do the snow song next, yeah?” Chris asked, and Jon hummed in agreement, counting the number of songs they had not yet done.

Ryan looked around the control room and let out a low whistle. “Wow. Lots of… buttons.”

“Yep,” Jon grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “We’ve laid out the drums and percussions for all the tracks, bass too. Guitar now, this violinist I know is coming to play her share tomorrow, and then a bunch of crazy shit we gotta record, the mandolin and the uke, not even done the keyboards yet, and we’re saving vocals last.”

“Huh,” Ryan nodded, maybe a bit impressed.

“You guys going out?”

“Yeah. Time to stop hiding, you know? Not just me, but Spencer and Brendon too.”

“Brendon is coming with you?”

“Nah. I called him, but he didn’t pick up,” Ryan shrugged. Ryan had a bit of eyeliner in the corners of his eyes. He’d had an entire makeup phase some time back but had since stopped. Tonight must have been special. “It’s gonna be weird, going back to that scene and not… getting fucked out of my mind. The only form of fucking I’m allowed to do will involve penetration.”

Jon laughed, and Ryan grinned, a bit restless. “So, yeah, Spencer and I made a plan: go out and get laid.”

Jon froze. “Sounds like fun,” he said, turning his gaze away.

He was single. They were all single and could do whatever they wanted. But Jesus, Jon had spent plenty of time fucking Spencer; surely Spencer was satisfied for now. And Jon hadn’t kept count, but out of the past eight nights, Spencer had spent at least five willingly tucked in Jon’s embrace.

Jon felt like punching someone.

“Which club are you guys heading to?” he asked quietly, hands curled into fists. He wanted to know in case he decided to check up on them.

“We’ll play it by ear,” Ryan shrugged.

Jon could feel his jaw clenching, and Andy said, “Going out for a smoke. Chris, you coming?”

Chris nodded, already digging a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and following Andy out of the room.

“Isn’t it funny how people never change?” Jon asked, thinking of Spencer taking some guy or girl home, wanting to rattle the random hook up until their heads fell off. Spencer pushing into the body heat of someone else…

Jon felt nauseous.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

“How, you know, you grow up believing in love, but when you’re old enough you just fuck around instead. You cut holidays short and fly across the world for someone, and it doesn’t even make a difference in the long run.”

Ryan chuckled. “Brendon told you that story too, huh?”

“About Spencer rushing back to the States and giving an Austrian skiing trip the finger? Yeah.”

“What?” Ryan frowned. “No, the story about someone trying to woo _Brendon_.”

“Spencer was wooing some chick,” Jon corrected, and it was obvious that Spencer could feel and show those feelings, but just wasn’t doing it with Jon. Spencer probably had no feelings where he was concerned.

Ryan laughed, brows furrowing. “You mean it was Spencer who… Are you trying to tell me it was _Spencer_ …?” Ryan’s voice faded away. “But Brendon…”

“You’re confusing this story with something else. Brendon’s not involved at all,” Jon said impatiently. “My point is that we are all capable of doing that shit, but can we ever really tell when it’s the real thing? And not just pointless infatuation. You’re the philosophy major, you tell me.”

Ryan was staring at him slightly. “Fu-Funny.”

“What?”

“Brendon just told me the story a bit differently.”

Ryan suddenly looked as furious and nauseous as he himself felt, and Jon wondered what the fuck he had said.

“Good to go,” Spencer’s voice came, and they both turned to the doorway. Spencer looked good, looked astounding.

Was Spencer going to sleep with someone?

Jon had written a song about Spencer. It was full of metaphors and similes, but _he_ knew the song was about Spencer even if no one else ever would. It wasn’t a sappy love song. It was just a song about a beautiful person, but if it was all pointless infatuation, just a story to tell years from now, like writing a song about them, like flying across the world for them, what was the point? They were just romantic gestures for temporary needs that made their generation nothing more than a bunch of frauds.

Jon didn’t even know if it was infatuation for Spencer or just sex with cuddles and kisses. Was Jon the ultimate sex buddy?

How could Ryan walk in, say one thing, and instantly fuck Jon up to the point where he was questioning everything he had thought he had known about him and Spencer?

Ryan looked shaken up, all colour having drained off his face. Ryan gave Jon a look that Jon couldn’t decipher, and Ryan walked out of the room fast. Spencer blinked in confusion but moved to follow.

“Hey, Spence?” Jon said, and Spencer stopped to look at him. Jon had thought that they were at the start of something big and beautiful and flourishing, but they weren’t. They had already gained everything they could ever hope to attain. “Have fun,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” Spencer said nonchalantly. Jon knew all about the stories of Spencer occupying bathroom stalls with willing bodies. Jon had witnessed Spencer taking off with someone too many times to count.

Spencer was going out to get laid, and Jon wasn’t even trying to stop him.

Spencer flashed him a smile that wasn’t much of anything. Jon watched him go, and he didn’t know what to do with his curled fists.

He didn’t matter to Spencer at all.

When Chris and Andy came back, Jon was already in the live room. He had gone in and yelled because no one could hear him do it there. He felt sick as he picked up his guitar and walked to the set up microphones.

“Jon? You ready?”

He glanced up to see Andy and Chris staring at him. “Yeah,” he nodded, his voice hoarse and anger swirling in him, rage that was aimed at faceless whores and kisses of treachery. He couldn’t understand why the man he fell asleep next to didn’t exist outside of those brief moments.

Spencer Smith was breaking his heart.  



	20. Incest

Incest.

That was the word Ryan kept looking for, the only appropriate word for it.

 _If_ it was true. _If_ it all wasn’t some incredible fuck up.

Ryan hated being in the hospital again, but at least, now, it wasn’t because he had overdosed. No, Brendon had been in a car accident. Brendon was fine. The other car had crashed against the passenger seat’s side, where Tom, the servant guy, had been sitting. Tom had cuts on the side of his face where glass had dug into his skin. He had broken a bone in his index finger. Ryan hadn’t known that it was possible to break bones that small. Brendon was fine. The driver of the other car didn’t even have a scratch on her.

The police were there. The paparazzi were outside. Tom was sitting in the chair next to Ryan’s in Brendon’s private hospital room, the casted hand pointing upwards awkwardly.

So much for going out and getting laid.

Ryan could feel something bubbling under his skin. It all felt numb, too much to take. He hadn’t pulled out his hair when Grace had called Spencer. Ryan had spent the past few years denying and dancing around his love of Brendon Urie, and now that Brendon had been in a car crash? Ryan had remained perfectly calm. Instead, he had observed Spencer, the way Spencer had nearly fallen apart, the wrinkles of worry on Spencer’s forehead.

Now, Spencer was by Brendon’s bedside, murmuring to his stepbrother in a hushed tone. Ryan saw the way Brendon kept a hand on Spencer’s forearm.

Little touches. How had Ryan never noticed them before? Didn’t Spencer and Brendon look at each other for just a little too long?

The weird, bubbling feeling spreading beneath his skin almost burned. Ryan bit on his bottom lip. He could taste blood.

It wasn’t true. If Brendon told Ryan that someone had flown all the way from Europe for him, and if Brendon told Jon that Spencer had flown all the way from Europe for someone… it didn’t necessarily mean. It could _not_ mean – For fuck’s sake, they were brothers.

The door burst open, and David Smith marched in like the man of the hour. Grace, who had been by the window, swirled around and exhaled, “Thank god you’re here!” She theatrically rushed over and flung herself into David’s awaiting embrace.

“Are you okay, Brendon?” David asked over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Brendon said. Brendon had been driving drunk, somewhere in Queens of all places. The woman was going to press charges. Of course, she would. Brendon was rich. The police weren’t going to lock him up. The lawyer, Burkhart, was talking to the police somewhere.

“I wouldn’t let them stitch the cut on his head! I wanted you to do it!” Grace said as she pulled back.

“Good. They’d probably make some goddamned intern do it. It’d leave a scar. You need a plastic surgeon like me if you want it to be flawless,” David huffed and walked over to check up the nasty looking cut on Brendon’s left temple.

Spencer pulled back reluctantly. He was holding Brendon’s hand.

“Good to see you, Dad,” Spencer said in a worn out voice. “It’s nice, uh… having the four of us in the same room again.”

Everyone stopped slightly at that, as if becoming aware of the situation. Grace stared at the three men by the hospital bed, and they stared back at her, and David and Grace were looking at each other in mild surprise. It was a sickening family reunion.

Incest.

“I’m gonna go get coffee,” Ryan said and motioned at the door.

“Me too,” Tom decided, perhaps sensing the same Ryan did, that it was best to give the Smith-Uries alone time.

They found a vending machine down the hall, and Ryan paid for Tom’s coffee because that was just how nice of a guy he was.

“Have you ever…” Ryan began as they leaned against the wall, detached from the rush of the hospital around them. Tom looked slightly pathetic with his right hand in a cast because of a broken finger. “I bet you’ve seen a lot. Working for them.”

“Fuck _yeah_ ,” Tom almost snorted.

Ryan stood up straighter. He was amazed that he could think straight, but he had heard that, when shit hit the fan, some people acted with perfect clarity. He, apparently, was one of those people.

“Have you ever seen Brendon and Spencer… do things? With each other?”

Tom went rigid and sipped his shitty coffee from the plastic cup. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Ryan got out his wallet and pulled out two hundred bucks. He was a recovering drug addict; it was habit for him to carry around large sums of cash.

“You know what I mean,” Ryan corrected Tom and stuffed the money into the pocket of Tom’s jeans. Tom looked down and seemed to estimate the situation before letting out a sigh.

“Well, what do you want me to say? That it’s not normal? It sure as hell ain’t _normal_ , but I work for them. I know it’s not fucking normal, man.”

“Specifics,” Ryan almost snapped, feeling the bubbling inside him flare up momentarily.

Tom took in a deep breath and looked around to make sure no one could hear them. “Apart from the fact that they both use me to spy on each other? ‘Where did you drive Brendon?’ ‘Where did you drive Spencer?’ I mean, fuck. They’re obsessed with each other. But… the only thing I’ve _seen_ , that I can swear with my hand on the Bible is…” Tom paused, glancing around guiltily. “I saw them kiss once.”

“What do you mean ‘kiss’?” Ryan asked, hearing his blood pounding in his ears.

“As in _kiss_. Not a brotherly kiss and not French kissing either, but if they’re in the backseat and Brendon is practically draped over Spencer, and they kiss, man, a lingering kiss with plenty of lip action, you just – you just gotta remember that you’re getting paid to drive them around and nothing more.”

It took Ryan a moment to find his voice again. “When was that?”

Tom frowned, pressed the empty cup against his neck as he scratched his jaw with his good hand. “During the holidays. Christmas time.”

“Thanks,” he said. His voice broke on the word. He headed down the corridor, passing nurses and patients. No one would notice him leave. Tom called after him, but he couldn’t make out the words. David would stitch the wound, and the media would have their day of drama. Business as usual.

“Ryan!” someone shouted when he walked out straight into the midst of the photographers, and Ryan would have been thrilled about being recognised on any other day. He would have beamed at the photographers hustling around him, asking for a statement on Brendon’s condition. Ryan would have loved to be the “ _According to a close friend…_ ” reference in the papers, but instead, he got out his sunglasses and put them on, pushing through the paparazzi without a word to anyone.

He was rotting inside.

He found himself in a bar. He didn’t know what bar it was or how he had gotten there, but that’s where he was. The bartender’s arms were covered in tattoos, and Ryan ordered himself whisky. He stared at the golden liquid for a long time before lifting it to his lips, his hand shaking as he did so.

Brendon’s mouth.

The whisky burned his throat, the taste of alcohol almost foreign to him.

Brendon’s lips.

He looked down at the glass. If he drank, he’d smoke pot. If he smoked pot, he’d want coke.

“Can I have another one?” Ryan asked, his voice perfectly still. He drank the second one a bit faster. “Just keep them coming.” He knocked back the whisky, feeling his tongue get heavy.

His insides were made of bile, and he was rotting and bleeding and withering away.

Ryan kept examining his hands, the long fingers and knobbly knuckles curling around the whisky glass. His head was buzzing with the alcohol, his body thrumming, but he felt slowed down.

His best friends were sick, incestuous, lascivious pricks who had been screwing each other for years. The man he loved was fucking his own _brother_.

Ryan laughed slightly and finished the whisky, banged the bar counter with his open palm and said, “Hey, I’m done now!”

The security guy of Brendon and Spencer’s building wouldn’t let him go up because he was drunk, and it was the middle of the night. He persuaded him to call upstairs. Ryan listened long and hard to recognise the voice at the other end of the line, the one saying it was okay to let him up.

“Spencer. Was that– Was that Spencer? My good friend Spencer?” Ryan asked. The man looked uncomfortable and said nothing. It had been Spencer because Spencer was waiting for him at the door of the condo, in his pyjamas but looking wide awake.

“Hey, man,” he greeted Ryan and let him in, and, instantly, “Dude, have – have you been drinking?”

“Where’s Brendon?”

“Sleeping.”

In whose bed?

“Ryan, fuck, have you taken something?” Spencer asked, hands on his shoulders and turning them face to face. Spencer sounded like he was genuinely concerned. Like he cared.

“Just a few drinks,” Ryan said and brushed him off, looking around the round foyer. He walked to the table in the middle, picking up the framed family portrait. “Where are the proud parents?”

“Went to the hotel Grace is staying at. I think they’re gonna talk and - Well, I don’t wanna jump the gun but things might work out after all. I’m hopeful.”

Ryan laughed loudly. “What a family. Wow. Good luck with that.”

Spencer frowned at him, confusion in his blue eyes. “Maybe you should go sleep it off.”

“Do David and Grace know that their sons fuck each other?”

Ryan kept his eyes on the picture, placing the frame back on the table slowly, enjoying the way Spencer sucked in a breath and the silence that followed.

“Or is that classified information?”

Ryan turned around to face one of his best friends.

Spencer let out a small laugh, brows knitting together. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Wrong answer!” Ryan shouted, the sickening burn in him finally boiling over the edges. “I know about you and Brendon. And you know what I think? I think it’s fucking sick! Do you know how _sick_ it makes me feel?!”

Spencer took a step back. “Whatever you think is going on between me and Bren isn’t –”

“Brendon is in love with you!” he spat because all the long looks suddenly made sense, all of Brendon’s mood swings that now, in hindsight, had been connected to Spencer’s actions and words. And it explained why Brendon had never, ever given Ryan a fraction of his heart. It had already been taken. It had been taken, and if Ryan had known that, if he had not been fucking lied to, then maybe he wouldn’t have wasted the last few years of his _life_.

“Are you…” Spencer began, voice wearing thin. Spencer had gone pale, his eyes wide. “You’re in love with him.”

“So? SO?!” Ryan shouted. Was it that surprising? He was allowed to have feelings, for fuck’s sake. He knew, god, he knew that he lived a life where all that mattered was the exterior. Nobody gave a damn about his abused and broken heart, because it was all about being beautiful and rich and perfect. He had fucked up. He had fallen in love. He was only human.

“Fuck, Ryan,” Spencer sighed with a pained expression, and Spencer looked sorry.

“That isn’t important!” he dismissed it. He had been dismissing it for a long time and could do so for a while longer. “What matters is that Brendon is in love with you, and you! You don’t even want him! Because you know what? You look ashamed. You look fucking ashamed right now.”

Spencer kept his eyes nailed to the floor. “I… I want him,” he whispered quietly, and Ryan had to take a step closer to hear the words. Spencer was admitting it. “But I can’t,” Spencer finished in defeat.

Ryan stared before gasping in disbelief. “Fuck you! You selfish fucking prick!”

“Calm down,” Spencer said softly, and no one was there to hear them anyway; Brendon was tucked away behind half a dozen doors, sleeping. Ryan just knew Brendon was in Spencer’s bed. Spencer looked tormented, like he had the right to even _feel_ tormented.

“Don’t stand there and make yourself the martyr!” Ryan spat. “Don’t stand there and say that you would have it any other way, that it just happened! It takes two, so don’t you –”

“You don’t know anything about what I’ve done!” Spencer said, raising his voice. “Do you think that it’s been easy? Do you think I haven’t despised myself for seeing the hurt in his eyes every _damned_ time I’ve turned him down? You know nothing about it, Ryan, so don’t judge me,” Spencer snapped, the words flying out fast. Ryan took a step back in surprise. Spencer averted his gaze. “I’ve tried my best.”

And there it was. All this time Ryan had been running after Brendon, and Brendon had been running after Spencer.

“You’re cruel,” Ryan whispered. “What you’re doing is cruel. Brendon is never going to give anyone else a chance because he thinks that you love him back.”

“I love him. Don’t tell me I don’t fucking love him! You have _no_ idea just how –”

“You think what you’re doing is _love_?” Ryan interrupted.

“Brendon doesn’t see that it could never work out! What do you want me to do? Push him away and break his heart? I can’t do that. I can’t fucking do that,” Spencer cursed, hands curled into fists and shaking his head. “This family, it’s all I’ve ever had. I can’t jeopardise that.”

“So you’re just gonna string your stepbrother along,” Ryan concluded for him, his words full of hate.

Spencer pulled in his lower lip, kept chewing on it absently. Spencer kept avoiding eyecontact, and at least Spencer knew it was wrong. Ryan knew that Brendon and Spencer weren’t connected by blood, but they had been raised as brothers. How the _fuck_ could you look at someone like that with lust and want? What crucial step in normal human development had they missed?

“I’m sorry you had to find out,” Spencer said quietly. Spencer clearly wasn’t sorry that Brendon was in love with him. “I didn’t know that you felt that way about him. I swear I didn’t know that –”

“Don’t say it,” Ryan said. Suddenly, his voice was hoarse and quiet. Spencer looked at him with pity, and Ryan couldn’t have that. He couldn’t take it.

His entire body trembled as he shook his head from side to side, his teeth gritting together.

“Ryan. Hey, Ryan,” Spencer said, and he had come closer without Ryan having noticed. He lifted his chin in defiance, ignoring how he shook all over. It hurt deeper and sharper than he had expected, and the alcohol did nothing to numb it anymore.

“I gotta go,” Ryan managed to say, but when Spencer took hold of his arm, he found himself unable to pull away. He was shivering, and Spencer looked so sad. If Spencer hugged him, Ryan would fucking punch him. Spencer was fucking Brendon, his Brendon, and all of Brendon’s kisses and hushed confessions were Spencer’s, and Ryan was falling apart. “What do you have that I don’t?” Ryan said in a voice that sounded completely alien to him.

Spencer said his name again, broken and sad. Ryan couldn’t stop shaking. He was crying. Suddenly, he realised that tears were spilling from his eyes, down his cheeks, and the oxygen escaping his lungs got tangled up in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer said, and it was a lie. Spencer wasn’t sorry at all, but he pitied him. Any sane person would pity a sad, fucked up kid like him who no one loved, no one gave a damn about.

“Why does he love you more?” he asked. Spencer’s face was still twisted up in silent agony, and Ryan tried to see what Brendon saw, that glimpse of something magical that would have made Spencer the more obvious choice. Ryan tried to see it but couldn’t.

Ryan breathed in, the flow of the air uneven as his body trembled. He stepped forward and kissed Spencer. His vision was misty from the tears, his eyes were stinging. He shut them, letting his quivering lips press against Spencer’s mouth.

Spencer went still only for a split-second before placing a hand on the small of Ryan’s back. Ryan could taste the salty water that had rolled down his face, and it was there between their lips as their mouths slowly brushed together. Spencer initiated nothing but kissed back, and Ryan knew that someone could fall in love with that. Someone could fall in love with the way Spencer felt like solid ground in a world of endless seas.

Ryan pulled back as if hit by lightning, and Spencer reached out to wrap his fingers around his wrist.

The thread had been pulled, and now, the whole tapestry that was Ryan’s life was coming undone.

“I have to go,” he repeated. He didn’t want to understand. He didn’t want to. He stepped back, freeing himself off Spencer’s hold. “Don’t tell Brendon. Just don’t, _don’t_ –”

“I won’t,” Spencer assured him. Ryan wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, nodding. He was sniffling, and he would have felt better if Spencer had punched him or he had punched Spencer.

Brendon was sleeping peacefully in someone’s bed, and the two men who loved him were breaking down and falling apart, and Ryan didn’t want to know that.

Spencer opened his mouth as if to say something but decide against it. Ryan hated Spencer, hated himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate Brendon.

He walked out and didn’t look back.

* * *

2009 – The year Spencer saw Ryan Ross cry. The year Jon Walker definitely, _definitely_ slept with a man. Spencer didn’t mind about the latter, but he wished that the prediction they had given Ryan at New Year’s hadn’t come true.

Brendon was pressed up against him, still fast asleep. He had some bandage covering his left temple where David had stitched him up. Spencer knew all about Skinny, all about the mess, and he sighed and could do nothing about the guilt washing over him.

Spencer didn’t know how Ryan had found out, but Ryan _had_. Ryan wasn’t going to tell anyone, that much was clear, but Spencer couldn’t stop feeling like a twisted brother-fucker. It was his fault. And Brendon’s car crash, that was his fault too. He had been preoccupied, distracted. David had been keeping an eye on the money, and Spencer had figured that it could wait. Spencer had already been assaulted by Skinny once, but no, Spencer figured it could wait. A major miscalculation, and Spencer knew that now. What if Brendon had hit a truck or a brick wall instead of a Volkswagen Mini?

Brendon would have to go to court. Burkhart had said not to worry, that they’d get out of it with a hefty fine. Brendon would still have a criminal record for driving under the influence and endangering the safety of others.

It was Spencer’s fault for having been preoccupied with Jon.

“This is what happens when I don’t put you guys first,” Spencer whispered and let his fingers brush hair from Brendon’s forehead.

Spencer had given up on his family for a while, but it hadn’t been over yet. He knew that now.

“Hey,” Brendon whispered, and Spencer noticed that he had woken up.

“Hi. How you feeling?”

Brendon tightened the arm he had around him, and Spencer felt guilty and dirty as Brendon pushed closer. “I feel better.”

“Good,” Spencer said and pressed a kiss to Brendon’s hair. Ryan was right. How long could Spencer play this game with Brendon? Spencer didn’t know whether he even wanted to stop. “I was so worried when Grace called me from the hospital,” Spencer admitted and pulled Brendon into a hug. “You gotta be more careful, Bren. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Brendon murmured quietly. When Brendon pressed their lips together, Spencer didn’t stop him. The last person he had kissed was Ryan, Ryan who had been breaking down in front of him because he was in love with Brendon. Spencer didn’t want to keep that memory with him.

Spencer pulled back before they could deepen the kiss. Brendon still looked half-asleep. Spencer got out of bed and said, “You can stay. Feel free to sleep some more. I’m gonna go give Skinny his money.”

“But –”

“Don’t worry about me,” Spencer said instantly, putting all the confidence in the world into those words.

Brendon seemed to believe him as he relaxed. Spencer had a feeling he could tell Brendon he was going to put out the sun, and Brendon would believe him.

“Hurry back. And be careful,” Brendon said in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Of course.”

Spencer hadn’t slept at all. The world was bearing down on him as he got out of the pyjamas and quickly pulled clean clothes on. Whenever he had stayed at Jon’s, it had always involved breakfast. Jon said it was the most important meal of the day, and Jon had always fixed something for Spencer too. It was easy to get into a routine like that, to the way Jon liked making out in the mornings, the way it was soft and languid and always turned Spencer on so fucking much, but Spencer didn’t miss it. He told himself he didn’t miss it, but he stopped in the kitchen to fix himself breakfast anyway. He’d have to ask Jon what bread he bought because it didn’t taste the same.

Spencer estimated the sandwich at two hundred and seventy calories. Not the ideal way to start a day.

He went to David’s office and grabbed a briefcase before heading out. He got to the bank just before the lunch time queues. He got a funny look for wanting seven thousand dollars in cash, but he still got it. He considered throwing in extra money to appease Skinny, who was clearly furious, but decided against it. Skinny was a greedy asshole blackmailing them, an asshole who had probably intended to beat up Brendon. If he had laid a finger on Brendon, well. Spencer would have had to fucking strangle the asshole.

Spencer’s phone started ringing just as he walked out of the bank. It was Jon, and he was happy about that even as he was angry, because he had been distracted, and it had been because of Jon. Technically, then, it was Jon’s fault.

“Hey,” Spencer said. He kept it short and void of emotion, just rude enough for it to be snappy.

Jon’s voice, surprisingly, sounded almost as harsh. “Hi. Did I wake you up?”

“I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

“Really?” Jon asked, and he sounded sarcastic. “Wow, you sure know how to keep a party going. So I take it that you and Ryan had a fantastic time then, huh?”

Spencer frowned before remembering that, yeah, they had supposedly been meaning to go out clubbing. Well, Ryan certainly had gotten trashed. Ryan hadn’t consumed any alcohol since his rehab, and now, Ryan had found that Brendon and Spencer were more than brothers.

Spencer closed his eyes to fight off a headache. He rubbed his temple. “Hey, could you go check up on Ryan for me?”

“I just got home from the studio and I haven’t slept in thirty-five hours, and you want me to go to the Upper West Side to check up on Ryan?”

“Well, I’d go, but I doubt he’d want to see me,” Spencer snapped impatiently.

“Why’s that? Did you two end up wanting to take the same guy home and fighting over it?”

“Jon, what the fuck are you talking about?” Spencer frowned. This conversation was not helping with the headache at all. All Spencer could hear was Jon’s breathing, heavy and fast, and Spencer could tell that Jon was fuming but he didn’t know why. “Dude,” Spencer blurted out as it hit him. “Dude, you don’t know!”

“Know what?”

“About Brendon! He – Shit, man. Brendon was in an accident, was driving drunk and hit another car. He’s okay and everything, but we spent last night at the hospital.”

“What?” Jon’s voice changed from aggressive to worried instantly. “Why didn’t you call me? Shit. Is he okay? Shit, what the fuck happened?”

“You were in the studio, didn’t want to bother you. Four stitches, nothing more. He was just… being himself,” Spencer said with an empty chuckle. Life would be easier if Brendon could stop being such a destructive force.

“Should I call him?”

“He’s sleeping, but later, maybe. I’m sure he’d appreciate that. But Ryan, um,” Spencer paused to consider his words. “He was upset. I don’t know. I’d want you to go check up on him.”

Spencer was hoping to god Ryan wouldn’t tell Jon about their extracurricular activities. Ryan wouldn’t, though. Spencer knew Ryan wouldn’t, because it would hurt Ryan too much to tell what he had figured out. It was cruel but reassuring at the same time.

“I’ll give him a call when I wake up. I need sleep,” Jon said.

Two girls walked past Spencer, obviously recognising him as they turned to each other and talked in eager whispers, sneaking star struck glances at him. Spencer forced himself to smile at them coolly as he turned away slightly, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

“So you didn’t go clubbing last night?”

“No. What bit of ‘stuck in a hospital’ don’t you get?”

“Just checking. I’m sorry about Brendon. And, you know, you can call me if shit like that happens. You know that, right?” Jon asked so sincerely that Spencer had to bite his tongue not to tell Jon to stop being so fucking understanding. “I’m gonna be home for the rest of the day. If you want to stop by or whatever.”

“Today looks kinda busy,” Spencer instantly declined, and he didn’t want Jon to say anything else. Jon would probably tell him how hard they’d fuck if Spencer came over, and Spencer didn’t need to be lured. Or Jon just might tell him how they’d make out for hours, unhurriedly and for no real reason at all, and that would lure Spencer just as much. He needed a break from Jon because it was getting out of hand.

“I gotta go. Sweet dreams,” he said before hanging up. Just to be on the safe side, he switched off his phone before stopping the first yellow taxi he could see.

“You want me to go to Queens?” the driver asked disdainfully, and Spencer promised the guy a considerable tip. He kept breathing in and out steadily, not giving a fuck his father would freak out over the money. David probably wouldn’t even notice with all the drama that was circling his marriage.

Spencer had never been to Skinny’s bar before. The cheap neon lights flashed outside and promised stripteases. Fucking fantastic.

“Wait here,” Spencer told the taxi driver.

“What? In this neighbourhood? Don’t fucking kid me,” the guy snapped.

“Thanks for the excellent service,” Spencer muttered as he got out.

He’d go in, give Skinny the money, shake hands (if required) and get the fuck out of there.

The bouncer didn’t look at him twice, and Spencer walked in to the dimly lit club. There was a stripper on stage, two D cups bouncing freely in the air. Spencer looked away because he felt embarrassed watching it. How the fuck did Brendon find these shitholes?

Spencer walked up to the bar, not wasting any time. “I need to talk to Skinny.”

The bartender looked at him long and hard. “Who’s looking for him?”

Spencer groaned internally. “Just say Smith is here with his money. He’ll want to see me, okay?”

Sure enough, a goon soon walked over and escorted Spencer to the backroom. Spencer felt surprisingly calm, though he couldn’t keep his hands from sweating. But he was angry, so fucking pissed off, and that gave him some clarity.

Skinny was sitting behind his desk in a spacious office. Big boned men occupied the couches by the walls, and Spencer instantly realised that the ratio was ten to one.

“Isn’t it the elusive party boy,” Skinny said with a smirk. Spencer figured he was allowed to approach Skinny and walked in further.

“Here’s the money,” Spencer said simply as he put the briefcase on the desk, flicked the locks open, and swirled it around so Skinny could see.

“About time.”

“Well, I’ve been busy,” Spencer noted, and because he was still angry, added, “I told you to deal with me, not Brendon. You broke the rules just like I did.”

“I never even followed them to begin with,” Skinny said crookedly and nodded at the briefcase slightly. One of the men instantly closed it and carried it away, and Spencer hoped David wouldn’t miss the briefcase.

Spencer stood still, not sure what the next step was. Skinny had the money, and Spencer no longer owed him. Done and done, right?

“Well. I’m running late for a meeting,” Spencer lied.

“Oh, are you now?”

Skinny’s tone oozed venom.

“Yeah. And I hope the two of us never have to see each other again.”

“Likewise. Do you need a ride? Charlie here can give you one.”

“I’ll manage.”

Skinny chuckled. “No, really. Charlie insists.”

An enormous man nodded and boomed, “I do.”

Spencer could do nothing as Charlie walked over and curled his thick fingers around his shoulder. Spencer swallowed hard and focused on not panicking. He was surprised to realise he wasn’t scared. He felt defiant.

“Bye now, Spencer Smith. I’ll be sure to follow your life in the tabloids,” Skinny called after him as Charlie and another man pushed Spencer out of the room. Spencer tried to break free from the hold, but couldn’t. A different woman was on stage when they crossed the bar, and no one paid attention, the customers watching the performance on stage. Spencer couldn’t help but notice that it was Sapphire, Tom’s girlfriend. Spencer considered waving to add some irony into the situation.

A car with tinted windows was waiting out front, and Spencer bit his lip. “Look, you guys,” he attempted. “How about I give you all a little something as a sign of my good intentions, and you let me the fuck go, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Charlie said. He smiled, and Spencer noticed a tooth missing. “We’re not going far.”

They pushed Spencer into the car and slammed the doors shut once they were all squished into the backseat. No one spoke anything, and Spencer kept thinking of Brendon asleep in his bed, Jon in his own, and he wasn’t sure which one of those places he’d rather be, but it was definitely not, _not_ in the backseat of a car going fuck knows where.

Maybe he deserved this. Ryan was broken, and it was Spencer’s fault for not knowing how to be a proper stepbrother. Maybe the gods were avenging now, and Spencer just had to take it. He could throw all the money he wanted at people, but that didn’t redeem him as a person. The book he had read on the fall of the Roman Empire had mentioned suicide as punishment. In the old days, if a senator was condemned to death, he was given the opportunity to kill himself. But Spencer didn’t want that. Where was the sense of punishment if he himself held the knife?

If he had never been born, Brendon would probably lead a much more normal life. And maybe Brendon could have developed some feelings for Ryan, and maybe the two could have been happy together. Maybe Spencer’s own parents would have never gotten divorced. Jon was the only part of Spencer’s life he didn’t feel guilty about, and that was what made him feel guilty. Whatever he had with Jon, he didn’t deserve.

“We’re here,” the driver announced, and the car came to a stop.

Charlie was kind enough to shove Spencer out of the car. They were still in Queens but had driven to a desolate industrial area by the East River. The sun was shining bright, and Spencer realised that spring was coming, that he needed to start thinking about Brendon’s twenty-second birthday. Spencer could see Roosevelt Island and, on the other side of it, the tall buildings of Manhattan. The cries of seagulls filled up the air.

“I live over there,” Spencer told the three men who had also gotten out of the car. The wind kept blowing in his hair as he motioned to the other side. “That’s the Upper East Side. So if you just keep going for ten or so blocks, right up to Central Park, that’s me. If you guys ever want to visit.”

He turned to look at Skinny’s men, who definitely had no interest in visiting.

Charlie was rubbing his knuckles into the palm of his other hand.

Spencer stood up straighter, and this is where all of his actions and decisions had led him to.

He took in a breath and glanced down. He didn’t feel as defiant anymore. “Not the face,” he said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Charlie snapped and punched him.

Spencer fell right onto his back on the hard concrete, and the agonising pain that shot from his jaw to his body soothed the other pain, the tormenting guilt eating him alive. Spencer tasted blood in his mouth. Charlie grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and raised his fist, ready for a second blow.

Spencer laughed.

Spring had come to New York.  



	21. Cities

Cities.

Jon missed touring, the half-living it felt like. He had gotten food poisoning in Topeka, a piercing in Detroit and an STD in Houston. But, for the record, he had taken off the earring when he had sobered up the following day, and the STD had been nothing antibiotics hadn’t been able to fix.

He had been in New York since November. He knew he would be touring all summer, but it seemed far away. He felt trapped and claustrophobic in the largest city in the country.

The sheets smelled of sperm, sweat and Spencer. Jon closed his eyes as he dozed in and out of conscious thought. He was exhausted but unable to sleep, and his fingers felt stiff and raw from the amount of playing he had done. He was a professional but still only human.

If he asked Spencer to come on tour with him, would he?

Jon wanted to show Spencer cities and venues he had been going in and out of for a few years now. He was sure that they’d all look different now, if Spencer was there with him.

The thought of touring and subsequently leaving Spencer in New York had nothing to do with the fact that Jon couldn’t stomach the thought of Spencer with another man or woman. But at least Spencer hadn’t slept with anyone else yet, so Jon didn’t have to deal with it. He was almost happy that Brendon had been in a minor car crash that had prevented Spencer from going out. He loved Brendon to death, but at the same time wanted his sanity intact.

He got a few hours of restless sleep before he gave up and got out of bed. Whenever they were recording, Jon felt like it was a race against time. It was all in his head, but he felt the burn in his stomach, the fire that kept telling him to finish the record. The sensation of having finished a song was a drug like no other, almost as good as bondage with a willing, submissive partner.

Jon’s thoughts strayed to Spencer again.

He found half-eaten Chinese takeaway in the fridge and he warmed it up for a combined breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was munching on it when the doorbell rang. He glanced down to make sure he looked presentable, glad that he had at least showered and put clean clothes on.

“Coming,” he muttered, swallowing around noodles as he padded over. He opened the door, expecting it to be Andy, but secretly hoping it’d be Spencer.

It was Spencer.

“Fuck,” Jon breathed.

Spencer laughed, _laughed_ , as he leaned against the doorframe, unable to stand up himself. Jon’s eyes flew over the bruises, the bloodied nose and tussled appearance, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, wincing, and then lost balance. Jon dropped the container, noodles splattering across the floor as he reached to take hold of Spencer. Spencer fell right into his arms, letting out a hiss of pain.

“Hey, hey, you okay? What the fuck happened? Holy shit, are you alright?”

Jon pulled back to look Spencer in the eye, supporting Spencer’s weight in his arms. His mind was vivid with a violent scenario after another, all the more terrifying than the last. He looked up and down to make sure Spencer hadn’t been shot or stabbed or –

“I’m fine,” Spencer sighed tiredly, and Jon’s hands curled into fists in the back of Spencer’s shirt as he pulled Spencer closer. “I just need to rest.”

“Okay, yeah, anything,” Jon agreed hastily, closing the door. Spencer was limping as Jon helped them to the bedroom, Spencer’s arm over his shoulders, and Jon kept asking what the fuck had happened, who had done this to Spencer, but Spencer just shook his head silently. “You have to tell me!” Jon said disbelievingly as Spencer carefully lowered himself to lie down.

“Nothing’s broken. I just need to rest for a few hours. Can I… can I do that? Please?” Spencer asked in a tired tone.

“Of course, but –”

“Later,” Spencer whispered, closing his eyes and exhaling. Jon sat on the edge of the bed and stared. Spencer had a black eye developing, and his other cheekbone was bright red where a cut was. Spencer’s nose was swollen, dried blood decorating it, but Jon knew that if it was broken, Spencer would be screaming in agony. Spencer had more blood at the corner of his mouth.

And that was just the face.

Spencer’s clothes were covered in dirt, like Spencer had been on the ground, and Jon knew that the clothes were hiding further abuse. He reached out to touch the strip of pale skin showing between Spencer’s jeans and shirt. Spencer flinched and recoiled when Jon’s fingers brushed the soft skin.

Jon pulled his hand back, and his fingers were tingling with an invisible burn.

“I’ve got… painkillers,” he said. His throat was dry, his voice hoarse. He felt like he had been screaming his lungs out.

“That’d be nice,” Spencer said weakly.

Jon got Spencer the drugs and gave him water. Spencer protested when Jon came back with a bottle of disinfectant, but Jon would be damned if he didn’t clean Spencer up. Spencer was tired, Jon could see that, and Jon knew Spencer hadn’t slept at all lately. When he had called Spencer just a few hours before, Spencer had been fine, had sounded perfectly fine. Where had he been since then and what had he been doing?

Jon pulled the clothes off of Spencer, leaving Spencer in his boxers. Bruises were developing all over, imprints of rough hands. Jon gritted his teeth. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

Spencer laughed. “I’d like to see you try.”

Jon said nothing, knowing Spencer would tell him after he had rested a bit. Jon used cotton balls to rub disinfectant on the few cuts, and Spencer hissed and winced but sucked it up. Jon could do nothing about the black eye (in movies they used steak to help with the swelling, but Jon had none, and Spencer was a vegetarian and would have probably found it gross), and Jon could do nothing about the other bruises where the skin was swollen and sore. He reached up to wipe Spencer’s nose with toilet paper, but Spencer took the scrunched up ball from him.

“I can do that myself,” he muttered and shot Jon a glare. Spencer sounded defiant for someone lying in his underwear after having been beaten up.

Jon remembered the bruises he had seen on Spencer before. It was all connected somehow, and Spencer had a secret Jon knew nothing about. He couldn’t figure out who had done it. They obviously hadn’t known who Spencer was, because, hell, who would dare touch Spencer Smith?

“It seems like I’m always patching you up, huh?” Jon asked quietly, speaking in whispers.

“Huh?” Spencer asked, rubbing his nose.

“The first time we ever slept together. Do you remember? You had tripped down on the street, had that scratch on your elbow.”

“Oh. Yeah. I… Yeah.” Spencer handed back the now bloodied paper, but Jon took it without complaint. Spencer avoided eye contact as he muttered a thank you.

“I don’t mind,” Jon said just as quietly. He let his eyes fix on the sheets as he added, “I don’t mind taking care of you.”

He let his hand press against Spencer’s hip, after making sure there were no bruises there.

“These painkillers are amazing,” Spencer exhaled as he snuggled into the sheets carefully. Jon got the feeling Spencer wanted to change the subject.

“I got them for toothache last year. Knock you right out, man.” After a pause he added, “Maybe we should get you to a hospital, just in case. You might have a concussion, or –”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll call up your dad, he’s a doctor. Just to make sure you’re okay,” he reasoned, and Spencer shook his head determinedly.

“Did you call Ryan?”

Jon blinked. Spencer looked like shit, like he had been someone’s punching bag, and Spencer was asking after Ryan. Fuck Ryan. What if Spencer had gotten hurt?

“No. I’ll… go do that.”

“You should call Brendon too. Just say we’re hanging out and shit, and that I’ll be home in a few hours. Just so he doesn’t worry.”

Jon made an agreeing sound as Spencer settled to sleep. Jon resisted the urge to lie down and spoon Spencer, knowing he would only press against bruises and make Spencer shove him back.

Jon wasn’t sure what to do so he got up and pulled the curtains over the windows to keep the sunlight out. Spencer made a pleased sound, and Jon felt utterly alone as he closed the bedroom door after himself.

He didn’t call Ryan and he didn’t call Brendon. Instead he went out to the balcony for fresh air, sitting on the lawn chair he hadn’t bothered dragging out for the duration of winter. The balcony wasn’t good for much when it was cold, but during summer the balcony made an excellent extension of the living room. The previous summer, in between performing at festivals, the four of them had smoked up in the balcony, Brendon insisting that they do so in the Jacuzzi. It had been a simpler existence, somehow. Brendon had been splashing water at Ryan, who had acted like a prissy princess, and Jon remembered telling them tales from tour in hopes of impressing Spencer a little.

Now Jon knew what it was like to have Spencer push into his touch when they fucked, but somehow he felt like he was still just trying to prove himself worthy.

He stayed out in the balcony, listening to the noise of the city until his pulse had slowed down back to normal levels. He was only one man in a city over eight million people, and someone was bound to have things worse than he did.

He still hadn’t slept. He knew he’d fall asleep instantly if he could go and curl up next to Spencer, but he didn’t want to intrude. Instead he went back in and laid down on his couch and closed his eyes, tried to stop himself from asking the questions he had no answers to.

He fell back into the state of half-awareness, suddenly not at all sure if Spencer had showed up on his door bleeding and bruised. Maybe it had been his imagination all along. But then he opened his eyes and saw the floor smeared with noodles, and it made him uneasier.

Spencer was okay, and that was all that mattered. It was okay.

Jon’s eyelids gave up trying to fight, and he let them flutter shut. Jon had nothing but troubled dreams until jerking awake, flying to sit up on the couch and trying to see what had alarmed him. Spencer, now fully dressed, was in the middle of the room, halfway between the bedroom and the door out.

“What?” Jon asked stupidly, pushing the sleep out of his body. It was later in the day, the light coming through the windows several shades darker than it had been just a second ago.

“I didn’t mean to wake you. You can have your bed back,” Spencer said quietly, looking uncomfortable as he remained under Jon’s stare. Spencer didn’t have blood on his face, but the black eye and the now-closed cuts were more swollen and prominent.

Jon stood up. “You’re not going, are you?”

“I should. But thanks, I –”

“Without telling me what happened?” Jon snapped angrily.

Spencer’s expression hardened. “It’s not really your business, Jonathan. I mean, I got beaten up. What more do –”

“Not my business? How can it not –” Jon shot back but stopped himself. He was too tired and too fucking emotional to be having this conversation. “You owe me. You cannot show up at my door and fucking collapse into my arms and _not_ tell me.”

“I don’t owe you. You helped me out, it’s what friends do, and I appreciate it. And now I need to go buy fucking huge sunglasses that’ll help me cover up the black eye. Okay?”

“ _Spencer_ ,” Jon said, emphasising the word. “You didn’t get into a bar fight where you just happened to get punched. I’m not gonna tell anyone, so why can’t you just tell me? You trust me, right?” he asked and couldn’t help but feel bitter. “I mean, you let me chain you up and use you as a fucking sex doll, I’d like to think you trust me at least a little.”

“Our sex life has nothing to do with this!” Spencer shot back, and _our_ sex life, was it? Spencer didn’t seem aware of his Freudian slip as he glared back angrily, but Jon noticed the choice of words clearly. “What happened, it was – a fucking accident. And I’m not in any trouble, it’s all been sorted. So you don’t need to worry or look at me with those goddamn puppy eyes! Jesus!”

“Puppy eyes? So, wait. Wait. Let me get this straight,” Jon said, voice rising steadily, so fucking angry Spencer was _still_ pushing him away. He poked his chest in disbelief. “ _I’m_ the asshole here? Really, Spence? _Really_?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Well maybe I am! I’m fucking terrified, okay? And worried about you! And you’re just gonna shoot me down for caring, and that is a really shitty thing to do.” Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but Jon stopped him. “If I’m such an asshole, then why do you keep coming back for more? Are you into that? Is this what gets you off? Should we include cutting and biting into our repertoire?”

“You’re confusing us fucking with real life!” Spencer snapped loudly, loudly for a man who couldn’t stand up straight, and Jon had a feeling the painkillers were wearing off, and he was happy for that because Spencer had not just said what Jon thought he had.

Jon took a step back and bit on his lower lip. “I see. This… isn’t real life for you. Okay. Okay… duly noted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I get it. You need me for the sex, which isn’t real life. I get it. And when I patch you up, that’s not real life either. And I’m never gonna figure out when you’re gonna come down from your ivory tower and join us mere mortals, am I?”

“I would’ve gotten away with less shit if I had gotten back together with Jenny, you know that?” Spencer snapped angrily.

“Would you have preferred that? Does she represent real life for you, that fine example of Tinsel Town trash?”

“Jon,” Spencer sighed, apparently abandoning his aggressive approach. “Think about who I am, okay? I’m a public figure, want it or not. And you’re a public figure. Real life is what exists outside those doors, and you and me, we’re never gonna fucking exist out there.”

“That’s where we differ,” Jon said quietly. He felt hollow and couldn’t look at Spencer. “Real life isn’t the one out there, but it’s the one in here. You just can’t see it, Spence, because that’s how you were brought up, in the midst of those blinding lights. But when you – when you spend the night or, I don’t know, cite Roman emperors at me, that’s more real than it’s ever gonna get in this life.”

When Spencer said nothing, he added, “But it’s not real to you. And you don’t need me for anything.”

“I do for the sex,” Spencer said in a light tone. Jon felt disgusted that Spencer was trying to joke about it.

“Yeah?” he asked and looked Spencer in the eye. “You can find plenty of men who will satisfy you just like I do, and those men won’t be dramatic about it. They might even patch you up. So you don’t need to tell me what happened. And you don’t need to come around either.”

It was an ultimatum, and Jon hoped to god it’d work, that Spencer would give in.

“Okay,” Spencer said quietly. “Sorry to have intruded on you.”

Jon gritted his teeth and didn’t stop Spencer from walking to the door. Spencer paused for a second, and Jon kept thinking that Spencer would take it all back, would tell him that they both wanted more, that they could _have_ more.

But Spencer said nothing, and Jon let Spencer leave. He kept staring at the noodles he had dropped on the floor, and it occurred to him that he and Spencer had just split up, and it was an achievement because they had never even been together in the first place.

Jon grabbed the first thing he could reach, a table lamp, and threw it at the wall and watched it shatter.

* * *

Peach looked the same; a stupid hat added the final touch to the suit, and his brown eyes were taking in Ryan’s appearance over the brim of black-framed glasses. It was the first time they didn’t meet in a luxury hotel as they stood by one of the gates of Central Park.

Ryan’s heart was beating with excitement and horror.

“Long time, no see,” Peach said. Ryan nodded, and it would be easier if he didn’t feel so fucking guilty. “Heard about you overdosing. The rehab, too. Didn’t expect you to call me.”

Ryan hid his fear behind a sly smile. “I’ve been a good boy, Peach.”

Peach didn’t comment on how he looked, but he didn’t have to. Ryan’s eyes stung and his cheeks were sore from the tears. Ryan had passed out and slept through most of the day, and he had taken a few drinks to numb the hangover. Even so, he remembered everything. He remembered Spencer’s excuses, Spencer’s lips, and he remembered how pathetic he had become.

Coke didn’t make him feel pathetic.

Peach sighed and looked around, hands stuffed to his pockets. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Hey, fuck you. I could’ve called a dozen other dealers, but your stuff is the best out there.”

“I’m flattered,” Peach said sardonically.

Ryan didn’t want to talk; he had a shrink already, so he just dug out the cash, showing it to Peach discreetly. “The usual, okay?”

“Two eight-balls. Gonna go home and kill yourself?”

“Do you care?” Ryan countered angrily. “What happened last time was an accident.”

He had been telling everyone, himself included, that the overdose had been entirely accidental. The more he said it, the more he wondered if it was true at all. He knew that he didn’t want to die, but what he could remember from the time was wanting the pain to stop, the cost be damned. He felt similar right then, just wanted the aching to stop. He wanted to un-know what he had found out about Brendon and where Brendon’s affections lay.

Ryan couldn’t forget, though, and wherever he went, whatever he did, he felt sick and ridiculed.

Brendon had been in love with Spencer all along.

“That friend of yours. She told me not to serve you anymore,” Peach said slowly.

“Matt did what?” Ryan asked, getting more annoyed. She didn’t even trust him to stay clean, did she? Talk about good friends. Matt was swamped with work, trying to graduate, but still had the time to intervene in Ryan’s life. Ryan chuckled. “Wow, a drug dealer who doesn’t want to sell drugs. You’re one of a kind.”

Peach scoffed and stood up straighter, which didn’t change the fact that he was a lot shorter than Ryan. “I’m selling you the stuff. Just try not to kill yourself.”

“Sure,” Ryan returned, and Peach nodded them to a more private area. Ryan’s hands shook when he handed Peach the cash, and the dealer gave him one small bag of a white powdery substance.

“I think one will do you,” Peach said solemnly, giving Ryan some of the money back. Ryan didn’t even argue. He felt a sudden adrenalin rush because he had coke, he had some in his possession, and he could take a hit right fucking now if he decided to.

“I don’t want you calling me up anymore,” Peach said sternly, and Ryan blinked at him. “I don’t keep clients who are likely to become liabilities.”

Even his drug dealer wanted nothing to do with him. Ryan couldn’t believe just how pathetic his existence was.

“Understood,” he muttered. His fingers were itching. _Coke_.

“And Ryan? For fuck’s sake, pull yourself together,” Peach sighed before turning around to leave. The words hurt for no obvious reason, and Ryan could feel his lower lip quiver. Everyone could see right through the armour Ryan had prepared for years, and now it was full of holes, and it didn’t keep him safe or warm.

“Hey,” he called out, and Peach turned back around. “What’s your real name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, it’s not actually Peach, is it? I’ll never see you again, anyway. I always wondered.”

“Patrick.”

Ryan nodded and shook like a leaf. “Patrick. Suits you.”

“Thanks.”

“Why Peach? And not, like, Mr. White or something Tarantino-like. Peach just sounds cute and cuddly.”

“I am cute and cuddly,” Peach, whose name was Patrick, pointed out. “My fiancé likes it. It goes well with his name. I think he uses it as a reference to my ass, actually.”

Ryan laughed so suddenly and so loudly that it hurt, and somehow the laughter became mixed with sudden gasps of breath. He used the gate to keep himself standing, the world blurring in front of his eyes. He lifted his gaze to see Patrick give him a sympathetic nod that indicated goodbye, have a nice life, and I hope I never see you again. Ryan nodded back, letting his nod say the exact same things.

Ryan let himself enter the park in the darkening evening. In one pocket he had coke, precious, beautiful cocaine, and in the other a flask full of vodka and an old, folded birthday card. He kept taking out the flask to take sips of the liquid, feeling it pour down his throat. He let his fingertips graze the card without taking it out. He made no conscious decision on his destination, but was not at all surprised to see where his feet led him. He easily walked off the path and towards the shoreline of The Lake. Central Park was beautiful at sunset, and Ryan sat down on the wet ground and looked at the buildings looming over trees in the distance.

He thought about calling Brendon. He thought about it. But maybe he’d interrupt; maybe he’d be an inconvenience. Maybe Brendon was trying to woo Spencer somewhere, and that’s what Ryan hated the most. Spencer wasn’t even trying to keep Brendon to himself.

Spencer wasn’t the real obstacle. Brendon just didn’t want Ryan.

Ryan laughed, wiped the corners of his eyes and took another sip from the flask. He wanted to wallow in his own despair and destruction, and the coke in his pocket promised salvation. The alcohol was starting to kick in, and he realised he had never sobered up from the night before.

He had no one to call. Maybe Jon, but he would probably be in the studio and wouldn’t answer. Brendon, Spencer, Matt, they were all backstabbers. Just a long list of backstabbers.

He had been a fool to think he’d find anyone genuine in circles such as theirs.

The vodka was gone, and Ryan’s heart kept aching. He wiped his cheeks that seemed to be moist whenever he touched them. He kept shivering, and he pulled out the small bag of coke.

He wanted to.

“Fuck!” he almost yelled and buried his face in his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He wasn’t strong enough. He’d give in, he’d get addicted, and he wouldn’t know when to stop. He’d die from this.

Ryan pulled out his phone and fumbled with it, hands shaking. He was a drowning man, and the water was up to his throat, going higher every minute that passed. He kept opening and closing his fingers around the bag on his other hand, couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

A hesitant and wary, “Hello?” echoed after Ryan had given up all hope. Ryan didn’t know what to say. “Hello? Make this quick, I’m working.”

Ryan burst into tears, closing his hand around the cocaine and trembling.

“Ryan? Ryan, fuck, are you –”

“I –” he began, and the line instantly went silent. “I bought coke,” he whispered. A pause.

“Don’t! Ryan, _don’t_! Just tell me where you are!”

Someone cared. He just needed someone to fucking care.

“Cherry Hill, Central Park.”

“Stay there!”

Ryan dropped his phone, not sure if the line was still open or not. He looked over his shoulder and saw a woman jogging with a dog on a leash, and he looked beyond her to see a family walking the other way, happy parents with two younger kids.

He turned back to face the water, and he wasn’t even a recovering drug addict. He was a drug addict, always would be. And Brendon would never give a fuck about him.

“Stop being pathetic,” he spat, but it was easier said than done. He took his mistakes hard. And Spencer seemed to have justifications on his part, but it didn’t change the fact that Ryan felt sick at the thought of the two Smith-Uries locked in a lovers’ embrace.

The plastic around the coke felt rough in the corners from the excessive kneading. Ryan couldn’t stop touching it. When he was high, he felt so fucking good. Heartache didn’t exist. Addiction didn’t exist, disappointment didn’t exist. He was someone else, someone better. Not this pathetic creature he had become.

He began unloosening the mouth of the bag. His hands kept shaking, some part of his body screaming for him to take some because it’d be so good, and he needed to, he fucking had to –

“Ryan!”

He recognised William’s voice instantly. He jumped up and swirled around, the world spinning slightly. William almost lost his balance on the slippery grass as he ran downhill, and the sun had set without Ryan having acknowledged it. Ryan wiped his eyes and said, “I’m fine!”

William stopped in front of him. He was wearing his work clothes and his hair was a mess. He looked so worried. “Have you taken any?”

“I’m fine!”

“Give me the drugs!”

“I can take care of my fucking self!” Ryan shouted in drunken anger.

William’s eyes roamed over him, and Ryan hung his head and kept his fist curled, feeling the bag against his palm.

“Ryan, what’s happened to you? What’s happened?”

Ryan didn’t even know when he had last seen William. He had forgotten about the man, in all honesty, he had been busy with his other friends who had money and fame and _were_ someone. But he hadn’t known who else to call, because all those people Ryan knew were just actors and cheaters and liars.

William pulled him into a hug, and Ryan could feel himself shaking. William whispered, “It’s okay now, whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Ryan didn’t want to pull back from the comforting embrace but did anyway. William was there, William _cared_ , and Ryan needed someone on his side.

“It’s not okay,” he whispered. “Nothing’s been okay since last fucking August!” he said drunkenly, and it was one of those moments he didn’t want to be drunk and wished he could sober up. But what did he care? What did anything matter?

“What?” William frowned, and Ryan pulled out the folded birthday card, passing it to William.

“There,” he spat.

He walked down to the shore and heard William read out the card. “Happy birthday. ILY. Brendon, xo.”

Ryan bit on his bottom lip, feeling tears swell up in his eyes. “Fucking pathetic!” he snapped, and William had walked to his side and was frowning.

“I don’t get it.”

“ILY! Can you fucking believe that?!” Ryan spat. “The… the most life-changing thing one human being can say to another stripped of all of its meaning like that! Love makes you _alive_. If you love nothing, you are nothing! And this!” he growled and snapped the card back in blinding fury. “This is what it has come to! An acronym, a thing to say in passing when it should be the most meaningful thing you can say! But no! It means fucking nothing,” he declared and tore the card into tiny pieces. “We love your new haircut or we love our favourite restaurant. You know what it is?”

“No,” William said quietly.

“It’s the inflation of love! Words lose their meaning, words… ‘Love must be reinvented.’ Do you know who said that?” he asked, and William just shook his head. “Arthur Rimbaud said it, and he was right. He was right,” he declared feverishly as he began to pace. “Fuck love!”

“Fuck love?”

“Yeah, fuck it! Fuck the word that can be raped like that, that can robbed of all its meaning by modern society. Because I know how I got here, I know now,” he said in sudden clarity. “Love means more to me than it does to you, it means more to me than anyone else. Your love is a weak breeze. But my love? My love?!” Ryan bellowed, and he was breaking down and didn’t care. “My love is a fucking hurricane!”

He could hear the water carrying his shouting along, and he stopped dead. He looked to the other side but couldn’t see anyone.

“I always thought of this place as a sanctuary. As fucking special,” he whispered. “Meet me at Cherry Hill…” He closed his eyes and swallowed; thought of all the times he and Brendon had just sat on the grass and talked. It would have been easier if they didn’t have such a strong connection, if they didn’t just get each other. Ryan breathed in through his nose. “I detest this society. I detest it.”

William seemed speechless as Ryan turned to him and extended his arm. William cupped his hand, and Ryan wasn’t sure, kept his curled fist hovering over William’s palm. He looked into William’s eyes, could feel himself beginning to panic, but William just said, “You can do it.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You can. You know you can, you’ve come so fucking far, Ry! You can’t give up now.”

Ryan hesitated. He was being torn in two. His mind was screaming at him not to do it, and his mind was screaming for him to do it, and his abused heart was beating too fast against his ribcage. Ryan was so sick and tired of the pain, and he knew he could make it stop just like that. He wanted to take the easy way out.

“Ryan, _please_.”

Ryan shook, and his jaw clenched. His arm trembled, his muscles tensing as he slowly, slowly uncurled his fist. The bag of coke dropped into William’s hand and the second it left Ryan’s possession, Ryan felt a wave of relief and sorrow and regret hit him. William pulled him into a tight hug, and Ryan didn’t care he was crying against the crook of William’s neck.

“It’s okay now, it’s gonna be okay,” William soothed him, and Ryan regretted not doing the coke when he had had the chance.

“It’s too hard,” he whimpered.

“It’s easy. See?”

William stepped back and took the cocaine, ripping open the plastic and shaking its contents out. Wind caught the white powder, and Ryan’s jaw dropped as it got carried away.

“You just! That was over two hundred bucks worth of cocaine!”

“And you don’t need it,” William said firmly. “I don’t know what’s going on that’s causing this, Ry, but you’re the only one who can change your life. You _can’t_ expect the people around you to change, that’s just not going to happen.”

Brendon was not going to wake up tomorrow and magically fall in love with him. Ryan could see now that Brendon and Spencer’s relationship was dark and twisted and _needy_ , and the blame couldn’t solely be blamed on anyone. Ryan was ready to declare himself as the casualty.

“I should’ve kept the coke,” he said bitterly.

“No, stop that!” William sounded genuinely angry. “You’re unhappy, but you can change it. You’re the only one who can!”

“And how do you suggest I go about it?! Huh?!”

William stepped closer and kissed him. Ryan was drunk and pathetic and weak, and William _kissed_ him.

Ryan’s hands flew to the back of William’s head to tangle in the soft locks, and he held on, pulling William closer. He opened his mouth for William, and their tongues met, and William felt new, different, innovative.

Ryan had to reinvent love. William cared, was beautiful and smart, and William wasn’t pretending to be something he wasn’t. William was there in every breath, carpe diem all the way, and he wouldn’t hold out on Ryan or create a web of lies to ensure status in snobbish New York circles. William was the kind of guy who would never break his heart.

Ryan had to reinvent love, and William seemed like a good place to start.  



	22. Kiss and Make Up

Kiss and make up.

David and Grace moved back into the condo, and Spencer sighed in relief. They sat them down and told them they loved them both so very much and that they were going to go to couples therapy. David held Grace’s hand as Grace said something about how they might have noticed she had been feeling a bit unhappy lately.

Lately? It was an understatement, but Spencer would take it. He smiled at his parents, but it was too late to appease Brendon.

When they were excused, Spencer walked behind Brendon, who stormed back to their quarters, hiding in the game room. Spencer followed and silently watched Brendon play their pinball arcade game. Seeing as Spencer didn’t care for the game, the top ten list consisted solely of “Bden rawks”.

Brendon cursed, shoved the machine and muttered, “It’s not gonna last.”

“It might,” Spencer said calmly.

“Yeah?” Brendon asked, not turning to face him. “It won’t. Don’t fool yourself.” Brendon pressed the buttons and gave the machine a jerk before swearing. “What’s up with everyone pairing up all of a sudden? Your father and my mother –”

“That’s hardly sudden.”

“– and Ryan with his boyfriend. I mean, what? Since when does Ryan date people? What next? Jon settles down with his favourite groupie?” Brendon turned to face him, brows knit together unhappily as he crossed his arms.

“Ryan and William seem happy together,” Spencer shrugged as he walked over to one of the couches and carefully sat down. He managed not to wince. The bruises Charlie and Skinny’s other men had left on him were still healing.

“We’ve seen them as a ‘couple’ once,” Brendon noted, making a big show of using air quotations. “William snatched him straight out of rehab, you know? There’s just something rotten there. Doesn’t add up is what I’m saying. And the handholding. The fuck?”

Spencer hummed in agreement. Maybe the handholding was a bit over the top.

Ryan had been his usual, detached and bitchy self, but William had been beaming. In their circles it was never advisable to show one’s happiness – it attracted people who’d fuck up your life because they had nothing better to do. Ryan still wouldn’t talk to Spencer one on one, though Spencer was glad for that. He remembered the tears, the shouting and the kiss. Yeah, definitely best to avoid Ryan for a while longer. Whenever Ryan looked at him, Spencer felt like an incestuous freak. And now William… It was obviously a reaction to Ryan finding out that Brendon had feelings for Spencer. But maybe Ryan had just decided to move on. That had to be a good thing.

“Makes no fucking sense,” Brendon repeated. “Ryan was all ‘Don’t tell anyone I’m gay’ and now everyone knows. I mean, people are asking _me_ details on it, like I’d know! Sure, most people can probably guess that Ryan and I, you know, might do things, but some of them treat me like I’ve been slighted.”

Spencer chuckled. “What? They think Ryan dumped you for William?”

“I know, right?” Brendon almost snorted and let out a dramatic sigh. He went to sit next to Spencer. “The four of us haven’t hung out in a while. We need to get everyone together and get high and go clubbing and just, I don’t know. Do stuff. This year’s been so weird.”

“Not every day you owe money to the mob and get beaten up,” Spencer agreed.

Brendon smiled brightly. “So romantic,” he said sweetly, and Spencer rolled his eyes. There was nothing romantic about it.

They had told their parents something vague about an accidental bar fight and had been yelled at for it. Brendon’s stitches weren’t coming out for another week, and Spencer’s black eye was slowly healing. The paparazzi followed them everywhere, and rumours were flying around that Spencer had been in the car with Brendon, which explained the black eye and bruises on Spencer’s face.

“We should start getting ready for Jon’s party,” Brendon said.

Shit, Spencer had forgotten about that. Jon was celebrating having finished the recording of his sophomore album, and whenever one of them threw a party, the whole gang was going to be there. It was more private than going to a club and having to worry that the bartenders would talk to the journalists to earn some extra cash.

“It’s gonna be full of obnoxious indie kids,” Spencer pointed out in disdain.

“Most likely.”

Spencer took in a deep breath. “Maybe we should sit this one out.”

“What?” Brendon asked and gave him a shocked look. “We gotta go, man. JWalk’s parties are fucking good. And he’s one of us. We’re going,” Brendon said simply, getting up and pulling Spencer after him.

Spencer wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Jon. Jon had told him not to come around anymore, and strictly speaking Jon had invited Brendon. Of course it was assumed that Spencer would come too, and Jon knew that when he gave the invitation. Spencer would go, stay for five minutes, and leave. Jon didn’t want to see him, and he didn’t want to see Jon either.

They helped each other figure out what to wear, and Spencer kept smiling at Brendon, who kept bitching about Ryan and William.

“You didn’t expect him to be single forever, did you?” Spencer eventually pointed out.

“Kinda did,” Brendon said as he pulled on a shirt and examined himself in the mirror of his bedroom. Spencer knew that Brendon kept him in the same category of people who would stay single forever. Spencer didn’t really want to be in that group.

“They’re not gonna get divorced, you know,” he said matter-of-factly. Brendon looked at him long and hard, and Spencer just shrugged. Brendon didn’t want to think about what the couples therapy meant, what the hopeful smiles meant, but Spencer knew.

“So?”

“So... I just... We’re always going to be stepbrothers.”

“Maybe.”

Spencer sighed and studied Brendon’s face, the jaw jutting out in defiance. It was a face he was familiar with, a face he had been deciphering since he had been ten.

It was different now. Ryan had made Spencer realise that maybe he was in the way of things. Brendon would never be happy this way.

“Even if they got divorced, Grace would be my mother. And I wouldn’t try to do anything about the adoption.”

Brendon’s eyes widened, but Spencer was fully aware of the schemes Brendon had been working on. “You wouldn’t do it for me?” Brendon asked.

“Brendon, it just can’t happen. To the rest of the world it’d always be vile and unnatural, and –”

“We could leave. Leave the spotlight, you know?”

“It’s not that easy. You can’t wait for something I am… never going to be able to give. Even if I wanted to.”

Brendon shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Brendon had always been stubborn, always living in a bubble in which he got everything he wanted. And he couldn’t have Spencer, regardless of what Spencer wanted. Spencer looked down at his hands, wondering when, if ever, they had talked about this. He had been lying to Brendon for too long, and it had caused nothing but damage. Ryan secretly loathed them both, and Jon… well. Spencer didn’t want to think about it or their fight or the way his insides felt raw, like sharp claws were scraping them.

Spencer took in a deep breath and considered his next words carefully. “The thing is that... I’ve met someone.”

Brendon flinched. “What?”

“Said I’ve met someone.”

“What… what does that mean? You’ve met someone?” Brendon asked in an alarmed tone.

Spencer shrugged and didn’t look him in the eye. “Met this guy.”

“The guy you’ve been fucking?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, reminding himself that they both knew he had a regular fuck buddy of sorts, and the hurt in Brendon’s eyes made him feel so fucking guilty.

“So when you say we’ll never be together, it’s not about our parents or the press. You’ve _met_ someone,” Brendon spat angrily. “Who is he?”

“Bren, don’t start.”

“Who is he?!”

“No one you know, okay?”

He couldn’t tell Brendon it was Jon. Brendon thought Jon was straight, and Brendon would crucify them both for treason if he found out what they had been doing behind his back.

Brendon was fuming. “And when did this happen?”

“Not even sure myself, really,” Spencer replied, just a bit indifferently. He had never “met” anyone. Even when he had dated Jenny he had merely shrugged and said that he was screwing her on a regular basis now.

Brendon opened and closed his mouth before his shoulders slumped. “Is it serious?”

Spencer shook his head quickly; ready to tell Brendon it meant nothing, not a thing. “Nah… just, you know. I just wanted you to know.”

“Wow. Just wanted me to know? Wow. Well thanks for telling me,” Brendon said through gritted teeth and headed for the door.

“Fuck,” Spencer sighed silently to himself. That had been a stupid idea.

Brendon stopped and swirled back around, eyes angry. “Well, are you fucking coming or not? The car’s out front.”

Tom wouldn’t be back for a month or however long his hand was going to be in a cast, so it was Sid who drove them to West Village. Spencer had his sunglasses on, though Brendon had done a decent job covering the bruises with makeup. Brendon wasn’t talking to him, and Spencer knew no one was going to love him for being honest.

But his so-called parents were going to stick together, and that was something. He didn’t care how feeble their attempt to patch up their marriage was – it’d be full of fights and bickering and mutual resentment, and Brendon was right: their good intentions counted for very little. But David and Grace were going to stick with it to the end, enjoying making each other unhappy if nothing else.

Maybe it was time to get out. Spencer had lived in the condo for seven years now, give it or take. Maybe he should ask Jon to find out about those open plan lofts somewhere in the Village, assuming Jon would still help him out with that.

The one good thing about Jon’s crowd was that there usually were none who worshipped them for their celebrity status. Jon’s crowd consisted of proud and stuck up musicians who, well, had nothing but their pride. Jon’s place was packed with people, and music was playing in the background - some unsigned indie band no one really cared about but was really hot shit in the underground scene. Brendon instantly disappeared into the crowd. He was furious with Spencer. Would it help if Spencer said that he had never meant to hurt Brendon? Probably not.

Spencer was stuck at Jon’s party alone. It had been a stupid idea to tell Brendon he had met someone when he and Jon fought like cats and dogs and never agreed on anything. Spencer looked at the people, trying to spot a familiar face. He wasn’t used to solitude. Normally it was one scenester party after another, friends, acquaintances, _people_ , and if not those, then at least their gang. Now… nothing. Even their gang wasn’t holding up anymore. Better make his appearance and go. It took him a few minutes to find the host, who was talking to Andy. Jon had his arm around a blonde girl Spencer had never seen before. He stopped to take in the sight, Jon standing there, smile on his face, drink in one hand, his arm around this chick’s shoulders. For a second, Spencer let himself imagine marching over, punching Jon in the face and walking back out.

He took in a calming breath and walked over. “Hey. Congrats on finishing the album.”

Jon tensed up. Spencer knew they hadn’t talked in a while, since their... disagreement. “Thanks. Still gotta mix it and everything. Coming out in July, I think the label said,” Jon informed him, and he nodded, looking at Jon’s companions. “You know Andy, and this here is Dakota.”

Dakota? Was Jon fucking kidding?

“Pleased to meet you,” he forced himself to say, taking in the girl’s short golden hair and blue eyes. Jon had taste. She was beautiful. Fuck Jon and his endless line of astounding groupies. Fuck them all for being more beautiful than Spencer could ever hope to be.

Spencer wasn’t jealous. No, disappointed was a better word for it. Spencer had never been one for self-deception, and he knew Jon had feelings for him. So what did Jon do? He found some pretty blonde thing to attach herself to his side. It was disappointing that Jon couldn’t come up with anything more original. It was disappointing how _boring_ Jon was.

Spencer gave Jon a look of distaste while Andy looked highly uncomfortable standing next to them. Dakota chirped something about getting another drink and fucked off.

He was fine without fucking Jon on a regular basis. Fair enough, he hadn’t fucked anyone since and it was starting to get to him. He found himself zoning out and picturing Jon’s thick fingers pushing into him and working him open, but any man with two fucking brain cells could get horny. The sex wasn’t the issue.

The issue was the heavy, hard feeling that had settled inside him, that made it harder to laugh or smile, that made him downright miserable.

Jon kept avoiding his gaze with an angry look in his eyes. Dakota? Fuck, this was ridiculous.

Brendon showed up, giving Jon a brief hug. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Spencer answered before Jon could. “I was thinking of finding someone to hook up with. Maybe someone called Vermont or Michigan.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Brendon snapped and asked Jon, “Is Ryan here?”

“Yeah,” Jon confirmed. Brendon disappeared back into the crowd, and Jon asked, “Are you guys fighting?”

“Yeah. Nothing unusual there. If Brendon asks, I went home.”

“Okay,” Jon shrugged. Spencer waited for Jon to say something more, like ask him to stay, maybe hint that they could fuck, anything, but Jon didn’t. Jon Walker could fuck off and die.

On the way out, Spencer bumped into Dakota and said, “Word of advice. He’s got chlamydia.”

Spencer thought he scored points of originality with that one.

* * *

Brendon was the shining star at Jon’s party. He dutifully stopped to talk to people he knew, even talked to those he didn’t know, patting shoulders and saying, “Yeah, that car crash. I don’t even know, man, I was trashed.”

No one was mad at him for driving drunk. Grace blamed herself, David blamed himself, and Spencer blamed himself. Even the press saw it as a symptom of the drama with his parents, and Brendon was just a poor, little kid who was hurting. It made all the chicks like him more, when they could pretend that Brendon needed saving and they could be the ones to do it.

He basked in the glory, not thinking about Spencer, who had met someone. How could Spencer do that to him? How could he?

Brendon was planning on spending some time with Jon, who he had hardly seen lately, but his eyes locked on a mess of light brown hair. Ryan.

After a week of Ryan not returning his calls, RyanandWilliam had appeared at the club in the middle of Brendon’s exciting story about his car crash and the mess of it, and then the newlyweds were there, holding hands, one beaming, one resigned. He didn’t know who was giving him a bigger headache – Spencer or Ryan.

“Ry!” he called out as he snaked through people, and Ryan turned around, hazel eyes landing on him. Ryan was smiling but it faded at the sight of him. Next to Ryan, Matt was beaming at Brendon, and at least she was acting normal enough.

“Hey guys,” Brendon offered and smiled warmly, thinking truce, let’s just knock our knuckles and call it a truce, because it was hard to fight a war that Ryan had never officially declared.

“Thought it was Bill,” Ryan explained simply.

“Oh. The boyfriend’s here?”

Brendon couldn’t stop the sarcasm from slipping in the question.

“Of course he’s here,” Ryan said bluntly and took a sip of what looked like orange juice. Brendon wondered if there was vodka in it or not. Brendon hadn’t seen Ryan as much as smoke a cigarette in a long time.

Most people started relationships by hanging out. Ryan had done no such thing, but rather had elated William to his current position in the blink of an eye. Brendon could see a hickey peaking from under the collar of Ryan’s shirt, and he wondered which one of them bottomed or if they took turns.

“Here we are,” came William’s voice, which Brendon recognised by now. “Oh hi,” William grinned at him as he passed Matt a drink.

“Hi,” Brendon returned stiffly. “How’s life?”

“Pretty great,” William said and slipped an arm around Ryan’s waist. Ryan leaned into it easily, turning to whisper something in William’s ear that had William’s lips twisting up into a smile. William turned his eyes back to Brendon. “Heard about your car crash. That could’ve been a close call.”

“Could’ve been,” Brendon admitted. Ryan didn’t react. In fact, Ryan had not shown any interest or worry that Brendon could have fucking died. “But you know, I would have at least lived my life to the fullest. Done all sorts of crazy shit. Like that time Ryan fucked me in Central Park. Good times,” he said smoothly.

Ryan’s expression stayed the same, blank blank _blank_ , and maybe William had drugged Ryan up, that would explain this boyfriend joke.

“I thought you said you didn’t swing that way,” William countered easily, not at all upset. Brendon could only assume that Ryan had told William of their friends with benefits thing, or whatever it had been. Brendon couldn’t think of any comebacks. He only looked at William and hated him.

“Oh, there’s Naomi. Let’s go say hi,” Ryan said without looking at Brendon.

Matt made a face. “I hate her.”

“Then don’t come,” Ryan reasoned, grabbed William’s hand and walked away. William was like a dog that followed Ryan around everywhere.

Brendon watched the couple disappear into the crowd and scoffed. Matt gave him a disapproving look, and Brendon said, “What?”

“I think they’re cute together.”

“Of course you think that, you’re a chick.”

“You’re sexist.”

Brendon shrugged and didn’t bother arguing the point. Matt stood up straighter, but was still shorter than him. “Well, Ryan’s happy and he’s clean and he’s found someone special. We should all be happy for him.”

“Oh, I’m happy for him. There’s just something fishy about Billy Boy. I mean, Ryan was in rehab. What kind of a guy hits on someone who’s in fucking rehab?”

“Shows Bill really cares,” Matt argued, and oh, Matt was calling William Bill too? Lovely.

“So I’m the only one who didn’t see it coming. My fault, I guess.”

He indifferently took another sip and scanned the room impatiently. Maybe he could hire a hit man to take care of William as well as Spencer’s mysterious fuck buddy. When he looked back at Matt, she was biting on her bottom lip slightly. Brendon quirked an eyebrow, and she shrugged sheepishly. “Well, in all honesty... I think I was kind of waiting for you and Ryan to... I don’t know.”

“Get together?” Brendon asked, genuinely surprised. Matt nodded and shrugged, and Brendon laughed. “What made you think that? We just fucked.”

“You two just... I don’t know. Always really clicked. I mean, you’re both arrogant and self-centred and got along so well. You kind of adore each other, you know? Or like each other, whatever,” she added when Brendon stared at her in confusion.

Brendon didn’t know what to say to that so he just shrugged. ‘Adored’ sounded a bit strong, but Brendon definitely thought Ryan was one of the best people he had ever met. But, well, why would he and Ryan have started seeing each other? They had been perfectly happy the way they had been.

Hadn’t they?

“William definitely adores him. He’s got a shit eating grin on his face whenever I see him. Or maybe it’s just the standard look of a bimbo model.”

“Bill’s not a model. Though he could be,” Matt amended.

Brendon frowned. “He’s not a model?” Matt shook her head. “Then what the hell is he?”

“Works at your gym,” Matt said explanatorily, like Brendon should know this. “Sometimes is at the reception, but is also a fitness instructor. You’ve never seen him around?”

“No,” Brendon said before breaking into a grin. A fucking fitness instructor. Ryan had definitely said William was a model, Brendon knew he had. But William worked at their gym, and Brendon had to laugh. William was white trash, a nobody, and it all made sense now. “Oh, saw Jason, gonna go say hi,” Brendon lied and began his search to find Ryan and have a word with him.

Brendon spotted the newlyweds easily and walked over. Without any formal greetings, he stated, “Ryan, I need to talk to you.”

Ryan looked surprised, fingers laced with William’s. “Whatever you want to talk about, you can do so in fro –”

“Mind if I steal your boyfriend for a second?” he asked William, figuring that William might be less of a douche right now.

William glanced at Ryan before saying, “I’ll be with Matt.”

Ryan shrugged, lips pursed tight together. Brendon took a hold of his shoulder and led them to the first available private spot, which happened to be Jon’s bedroom. Brendon closed the door behind them.

Ryan had his arms wrapped around his middle, stance defensive. “What?” he asked in a bored tone and a flick of his hair.

“I wanna know why you’re being a moody bitch to me. And I also want to know why you told me William’s a model when he’s the receptionist at our gym. I mean, at our _gym_ , Ry?” he asked and chuckled. “Someone might call that desperate.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan snapped indignantly. “Yeah, so he works there. Fucking what? It’s an honest job, a real job. You and I might not always remember that some people aren’t loaded.”

“I’ve got two words: gold digger.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Brendon waited for a fierce counterattack, but it didn’t come. Ryan shrugged. “So?”

“So?” Brendon repeated in astonishment.

“Yeah. Say you’re right. Say you’re right when you don’t know the first thing about me and William, what we’ve shared or been through.”

“Been through? You barely know the guy!”

“Well, what’s it to you?”

Brendon gaped. “I’m – I’m your best friend, Ryan! It’s everything to me!”

Brendon realised the weakness of the statement when they hadn’t even hung out in ages. Brendon felt helpless, and he noticed that Ryan had his hands curled into fists. Why was Ryan so angry with him?

“You’ve, uh,” Brendon began and reached out to take hold of Ryan’s other hand. “You’ve taken off that watch I gave you.”

Ryan had worn the diamond watch daily, and Brendon had liked seeing it there, even if it had originally been a gift to Spencer. Ryan just shrugged, and Brendon couldn’t understand what had happened.

“Ryan. You have to tell me what I did.”

Ryan gave him a crooked smile and pulled his hand back. “You didn’t do anything.”

Brendon felt like that was the problem. He felt sad and let his lips tut out in a pout. “I miss you, man.”

The unexplained resentment in Ryan’s eyes seemed to fade, and Ryan took in a deep breath. He glanced down and muttered, “Miss you too.”

Brendon beamed and took a step closer. He was magic. No one blamed him for the car crash, and Ryan couldn’t be mad at him for long. “We could ditch the party and go back to my place,” he said sweetly.

Ryan lifted an eyebrow. “I have a boyfriend now.”

“And?”

“And I – I like him.”

“But don’t love him,” Brendon pointed out.

“I have a boyfriend and it means something,” Ryan said firmly, taking in another deep breath and looking over Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon didn’t know what to say, what to do with the hurt of rejection.

He said, “I was talking to Matt. She said she always thought that we’d end up together.” He paused and shrugged. “A funny thought, right?”

Ryan returned his chuckle. “She watches too many chick flicks.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he agreed, and he felt hollow inside and wasn’t sure why.

He had counted on Ryan always being there, but now realised his mistake.

“I gotta go,” Ryan said simply, and he maybe sounded a bit wistful. Brendon nodded, but out of impulse pulled Ryan into a tight hug. Ryan said nothing as he hugged him back, and they had never really been the affectionate type of friends.

When Ryan walked out, Brendon stared after him, knowing Ryan was going back to William. The sense of loss had him wanting to rush after Ryan and ask if he had ever thought of the two of them together, if Ryan had ever thought of that. Because Brendon never had, but suddenly felt like maybe he should have.

Brendon buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know left from right anymore.

Spencer had already taken his leave, so Brendon went home alone. It occurred to him that he had lost the two men he cared the most about.

He got back to the condo late. Spencer was in their living room, watching TV in his pyjamas. Brendon went to his room without saying a word.

Ryan had met William, and it made no sense. William was a nobody. Surely Ryan Ross would make sure that his potential love interest was well connected, like Brendon was. And Spencer had found someone better too.

Brendon put on a pair of pyjama pants and walked back out. Spencer was sitting on the couch but looked up when he approached.

“Hi,” Spencer offered in a calm tone.

“Tonight sucked. Ryan is an asshole, and so are you. Fuck you both with your new, fabulous lives,” Brendon spat and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. Spencer just blinked at him. “What do you like about him? About the guy you’ve met.”

“Well, I…” Spencer began and frowned. He shrugged slightly, rubbing his hands on his pyjama pants in an unsure manner. “He… he makes me feel okay about being myself. And he makes me feel like its okay not to be strong all the time. That probably doesn’t sound like much, but it is.”

“And I don’t make you feel like that?” Brendon asked instantly, feeling jealous over whoever this guy was.

“You make me feel like that, sometimes,” Spencer admitted before giving him a sly grin. “But he also gives me mind-blowing orgasms.”

Brendon laughed, maybe a bit bitterly, but he laughed nonetheless. “Wow,” he nodded and crossed his arms. “Well… I’ll be honest with you. You’re not a relationship kind of guy.”

“Neither is he,” Spencer pointed out and stood up. “Look. It’s nothing yet. I’m the first guy he’s ever been with, and that’s never a good sign. It most likely won’t work out. In fact, I already might’ve fucked it up. But I like him, for some unknown reason, and I never really like anyone so…”

“Are you gay?”

Spencer laughed. “Like, what? Ross gay? No. I just like this guy.”

Brendon breathed in loudly through his nose, his arms dropping to his sides. “Is it official?”

“Not at all. Fuck, the likelihood of things working out is slim, but there is a small chance, so,” Spencer shrugged. “Right now, it’s more like a hunch.”

“Well, then,” Brendon concluded. Brendon had missed his chance. He had lost Spencer too.

Spencer stared at him and blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

Brendon ducked his head to avoid eye contact. “’S okay. I’m just… I’m just never gonna be that guy,” he laughed and shook his head. “I’m never gonna make you feel okay to be weak, I’m never gonna be that guy for you. It’s no one’s fault.”

Maybe he’d get another chance, some time. Maybe the guy would break Spencer’s heart, and Brendon could pick it up. Maybe not. Maybe Spencer would fall madly in love and never need him again.

He would call Tom, and they’d go to some sleazy strip joint in Queens, and they’d drink and laugh, and Brendon would buy Tom a lap dance from a fat stripper. And Spencer, well, maybe Spencer would go see the guy. After years of their lives swirling into one, Brendon knew they were standing at a crossroad, and Spencer was looking the other way, itching to go.

Brendon walked over to Spencer and smiled at him. He cupped Spencer’s cheek, and Spencer looked as sad as he felt.

“He better treat you right or he has to answer to your big brother,” Brendon whispered, having to smile because he knew there was irony there. Spencer’s lips tugged upwards. Brendon kept smiling, but beyond that was defeat.

When Brendon leaned in closer, Spencer met him halfway. The kiss was chaste but softer than any kiss they had shared before. Brendon tried to memorise it.

Their last kiss. Brendon remembered their first one, Spencer’s wide eyes when they pulled back as if hit by lightning. It had been accidental, but a natural development of things. Brendon knew that Spencer still loved him. It wasn’t easy to love someone like him, and he knew that. Fuck, he knew that.

Spencer was one of a kind, and Spencer would never be his. Brendon broke the kiss.

“Gotta go,” he mumbled and backed away, like he had somewhere to be in the middle of the night. He headed for his bedroom and was almost there when Spencer grabbed his arm and twisted him around.

Brendon lifted his eyebrows. “Wha –”

Spencer kissed him, hot and fiery and starving. Brendon’s breath escaped between them, and Spencer pulled him closer. Fuck, _Spencer_. Brendon made a hungry sound at the back of his throat, letting Spencer push them into his bedroom.

Spencer broke the kiss when he turned to lock the door. “What?” Brendon asked, heaving and bewildered.

“Come here,” Spencer beckoned, and that was all the invitation Brendon needed. He attacked his stepbrother’s mouth wildly, sucking in Spencer’s bottom lip. He knew Spencer loved that.

Spencer took a firm hold of his hips and pushed them further into the room and down on the queen-sized bed. Spencer was everywhere, in the hands tugging at his clothes hurriedly, in the mouth over his, and Brendon was drowning in it.

He let out a breathless, turned on, “Spencer.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His hands were in Spencer’s hair, but Spencer pushed him off and moved down on him. Brendon froze, gazing down with lust swirling in him. He was hard and so turned on. Spencer’s hands skimmed down Brendon’s chest and stomach, over the skin. Spencer’s touch felt amazing, and he was arching into it. Spencer’s lips pressed against his taut stomach, and Brendon bit his bottom lip to keep from moaning. He had always dreamed of Spencer touching him like this, had always – he closed his eyes and let his head roll back. Spencer kept kissing him around his belly button, and Brendon automatically lifted his hips to help Spencer pull off his pyjama pants.

Spencer’s mouth left a wet trail all the way to Brendon’s erection. “Oh, Christ,” Brendon gasped at the feel of Spencer’s hot breath washing over him.

“Yeah,” Spencer murmured, his voice low, so low and full of want. Brendon whined. Spencer wanted him, fuck, Spencer was – Brendon took in a deep breath to control himself. Spencer took Brendon’s cock into his mouth, hot tongue swirling around the head. Spencer had never done this to him before, and it felt even better than Brendon had imagined. Brendon let his hips rock upwards to get more.

Spencer sucked Brendon’s cock into his mouth, moaning around it. Brendon felt hot all over, and he fisted Spencer’s hair as he looked down. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Spencer was sucking him off, Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking _Christ_. Spencer let his tongue run along the shaft, and Brendon trembled.

Brendon took hold of Spencer’s arms and pulled Spencer back up on him, because he would come far too soon if Spencer kept going. They kissed, and Brendon gasped against Spencer’s wet, swollen lips. The kissing was messy and hasty and full of saliva, like they were both afraid that someone would stop them. But no one would, and Brendon’s stomach was twisting in excitement. Spencer pushed him down on the bed, settling on top. Spencer was in control, telling him what to do, what not to do, just like it always had been. Brendon was kissing Spencer wildly, desperately, taking bites at his mouth.

“I want you,” Spencer groaned, and it was all Brendon had ever wanted to hear. Brendon helped Spencer pull off his shirt, and he had to take a moment to calm down when Spencer pulled his pyjama pants down, leaving Spencer just as naked as he was.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked breathlessly. His cheeks were rosy, his pupils dilated. Brendon’s stomach dropped.

”Yeah,” he said. He was more than okay. Spencer got out the lube and condoms, and Brendon could feel his cock twitch. Were they really going to do this, at last? Fuck.

Brendon spread his legs obediently, watching Spencer pour lube on two of his fingers. Spencer’s fingers, fuck, he had fantasised about them so many times. Brendon could practically feel his skin melting off when Spencer pushed his legs further apart, and let his hand pry between his ass cheeks. He rationed his breaths and relaxed against the mattress, never taking his eyes off of Spencer, who was biting his bottom lip in concentration. Brendon moaned and shuddered when Spencer pushed in a finger. He arched his back and looked straight at Spencer, who stared back. Spencer pushed the finger in deeper, and it was almost a test to see how many barriers they could break, how many lines they could cross and ignore.

Spencer pulled back, added a second finger and curved them upwards forcefully. “Ah, fuck,” Brendon gasped, hips bucking towards Spencer.

Spencer moved down to kiss his thighs and kept working the fingers inside him. Brendon kept looking down, feeling the fingers work him open for Spencer. Oh fuck, he almost came from that thought alone.

Spencer was gently biting his thighs and his lower stomach, mouthing at his cock. Brendon already had pre-come at the tip, but fuck, he had had Spencer’s mouth, and now had his fingers.

“Spencer, oh fuck, Spence –”

“You ready?” Spencer asked breathlessly and looked up at him. He nodded. He had been ready for years.

Spencer pulled his fingers out, and Brendon watched his stepbrother roll the condom on. He was so turned on, felt so wanted and loved that he moaned though he wasn’t even being touched. Spencer, his Spencer was there, and then Spencer was over him, and their mouths locked. Brendon wrapped his legs around Spencer, letting his hands roam over Spencer’s back.

Brendon looked between their bodies to see Spencer guide his cock to his entrance.

“Fuck,” he breathed when he felt the pressure. His eyes moved back to Spencer’s face, and there was a moment there, one of them pausing. Brendon knew all the possible consequences of their actions; he knew they would never be able to take it back. He held his breath.

Spencer pushed in, and Brendon felt Spencer’s cock stretch him further, sliding into him. The feel of it made his head swim, and he closed his eyes as his head pressed into the pillow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Spencer_ , ah –”

Spencer was in him, was filling him up, Spencer, fuck, he couldn’t process it. It was too much, it was too fucking much, and Brendon grabbed Spencer’s shoulders as he suddenly trembled all over. He helplessly repeated Spencer’s name, and Spencer pushed in until he was buried to the hilt. It was hot, and Brendon felt so full. He could do nothing as he felt the fire inside him explode, and he came between them messily.

“Jesus,” Spencer breathed in an awed voice.

Brendon moaned loudly and reached up to kiss Spencer. “It’s okay,” he almost slurred. “It’s okay, just keep going.”

He could feel his cock already attempting to erect again. Fuck, he was fine, he was fine. He didn’t even feel embarrassed he had already come because this was _Spencer_ , and of course Brendon’s entire body was on overdrive.

Spencer started a rhythm, and they kept kissing. Spencer was exactly like he had dreamed. It was completely overwhelming, having Spencer push into him, pull back, and push in again. Brendon desperately wanted to make Spencer come, to have this one time with him.

He lost his breath at the thought. One time. They wouldn’t do this again. His insides burned with loss, but he had Spencer now, and he focused on that. He didn’t think of the guy Spencer had met, the guy Spencer was falling in love with. It would never be him.

He closed his eyes and thrust up. The sound of their bodies slamming together filled the air, and Brendon felt sweat push through at his hairline. Spencer kept kissing his lips, his jaw and his neck. They tangled together desperately, and Spencer groaned against his skin.

“You feel amazing,” Spencer gasped.

Brendon wanted to say that he bet he felt better than any guy Spencer would ever fuck, but it’d probably be wishful thinking. Brendon dug his nails to Spencer’s lower back, hoping to leave marks.

Brendon’s cock was hard again, and it rubbed against Spencer’s stomach. The friction sent shivers down his spine. Spencer snaked a hand between them to touch him. Brendon’s back arched, and he felt blissful like that. Spencer’s cock was thick and hot in him, and Spencer had just the right angle to rub against his prostate. Brendon kept moaning out, hoping that this would last forever, that this would never, ever stop.

But Spencer began stroking him, and Brendon could feel another orgasm building up. Spencer was close as the rhythm sped up, and the knowledge of Spencer being about to come inevitably brought Brendon’s climax closer. He wanted Spencer to come from fucking him, to completely lose himself in his embrace.

“Fuck, Bren, fuck. Oh god, oh god –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he breathed against Spencer’s mouth, fisting Spencer’s hair and pulling him closer. Spencer swirled a thumb over the leaking slit of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon jerked. He felt his muscles clench around Spencer’s cock, and Spencer was hissing and moaning at the feel of it.

Fuck, not yet, not yet, just let it last a while longer, just –

Spencer shuddered to a stop, moaning Brendon’s name loudly. Brendon watched in awe as Spencer came deep inside him, and, before he knew it, his vision blacked out. He spilled between them a second time, clinging onto Spencer desperately.

“Fuck, Spence,” he whispered, his voice raw. Spencer shook against him, and Brendon pulled him closer. He wanted to feel Spencer boneless on top of him, wanted to know what it felt like. He had always wondered.

He could be so happy with Spencer. He could be a better man. And he’d try his best to make Spencer feel okay to be weak, he could figure it out. But Spencer wasn’t going to give him that chance.

Spencer pulled out of him carefully. They kept kissing and touching, and Spencer soothed him because he couldn’t stop shaking.

“Spencer,” Brendon whispered into Spencer’s ear. He had Spencer and he didn’t. It had always been that way. Brendon closed his eyes and breathed Spencer in. “God, Spencer... I would have loved you so much.”  



	23. To Have and Have Not

**Chapter 23**

To have and have not.

When Brendon had used to share his bed with Spencer, they had always woken up tangled in each other. On those hazy mornings, Brendon always wished more than sleeping had taken place in that bed. Now, it had happened. When he forced his eyes open, his ass was sore just enough to indicate that he had gotten fucked.

Spencer was sleeping on the other side of the bed.

Brendon didn’t stare for longer than a few seconds. He knew he’d remember it forever, anyway.

He got out of bed. As he stood up straight, he lost his breath when a cold feeling settled inside his stomach. But he had already kissed goodbye, and his bed was no sacred haven for him and Spencer. It never had been.

He showered and blindly kept staring at his naked arms and legs. David and Grace wouldn’t get a divorce. They would enjoy making each other miserable if nothing else. Brendon didn’t want to do the same to someone he genuinely loved. He couldn’t enslave Spencer even though he knew he probably could.

Spencer wasn’t in his bed when he came back out with a towel wrapped around his waist. He sighed and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He hoped Spencer didn’t regret it. It had been fucking magical, and he was sure he could appreciate that some years down the line, but not in the morning after.

Spencer wasn’t his anymore. He stared at the twisted sheets.

“You know,” Spencer’s voice came from behind him, and he swirled around. Spencer was in the open doorway in his boxers, looking at him with calm eyes. There was no shame in them, and Brendon felt better. No more shame.

“Know what?”

“We almost had a sister.”

Brendon blinked. “Diana?”

Spencer looked shocked for a second before asking, “Is that what her name would’ve been?”

“Yeah,” Brendon admitted. Spencer nodded, taking it in, and they both had known about their could-have-been sister and hadn’t told each other. Brendon had to laugh at the irony. “I think that... that even if she had been born, I would’ve fallen in love with you. Pretty twisted, huh?”

Spencer smiled sadly. Brendon wanted to say that Spencer shouldn’t feel guilty about it anymore. They had loved each other. That was all. Instead, he said, “Diana was better off never being born. It’s not an easy life.”

“I’ll tell you who the guy is if you want me to,” Spencer offered. Brendon’s insides squeezed tight together. He desperately wanted to know who Spencer had met, who the competition had been. They had won, obviously.

“I... I can’t. Not right now, I –”

“Okay,” Spencer said calmingly, and Brendon inhaled, realising he had started shaking slightly. He bit on his bottom lip, blinking more than necessary. His eyes stung. Spencer asked, “What are you doing today?”

“I don’t know. Maybe hang out with Jon,” he shrugged, and Spencer chuckled. Brendon didn’t know what was so funny. “I’d call up Ryan, but... I don’t think he wants anything to do with me anymore. He just...”

Spencer’s expression darkened. “He what?”

Brendon resorted to shrugging. “Ryan is so preoccupied with William these days. I don’t know what I’ve done, but he acts like he fucking hates me.”

“Brendon,” Spencer said in a serious tone, standing up straight. Brendon lifted an eyebrow. “I haven’t told you something. Ryan, um... He found out about us. About you and me. I don’t know how, I guess he just figured it out.”

“Ryan knows?” Brendon frowned. “Knows what exactly?”

Spencer shrugged. “Just that, you know, we’ve got a history. I didn’t tell you because it was right after your car crash. Ryan’s not talking to me either, though. It’s nothing you did.”

Brendon didn’t mind someone finding out about him and Spencer. _He_ had never been ashamed of it, anyway. He had been ready to tell the world that it didn’t count; they weren’t related by blood. However, he did mind his best friend being mad at him over something Spencer knew but hadn’t told him.

“So... So what did he say to you?”

Spencer exhaled and pushed hair from his eyes. He looked sorry. “What do you think? Ryan sees us as brothers. He thinks it’s repulsive.”

“And that’s why he’s angry?” Brendon asked, trying to fit the clumsily shaped puzzle pieces together. “But why would –”

“You have to figure it out for yourself. I think that... we all gotta figure it out for ourselves. But I think he’d come around if you...”

If Brendon what? Spencer knew something he didn’t. It seemed that everyone knew something he didn’t know.

“I’m gonna get going. But you should call Ryan. He might... might want to hear your version of it.” Spencer paused and shrugged. “You know he’s not in love with William.”

“I know that,” he said. Spencer stared at him for a long time before nodding and turning around.

On the only morning after they were ever going to get, they didn’t cuddle or even touch. Spencer left, and Brendon kept thinking of Ryan, who knew. There was something Brendon had missed. He thought about his hug with Ryan the night before and how Ryan had stopped glaring at him when he had acted miserable enough. Brendon could probably talk some sense into Ryan, make him get over it. It would be a piece of cake now that Brendon knew what the problem was.

But something just didn’t feel right.

He sent Ryan a text, saying, _cherry hill picnic 2day @ 3? food n entertainment provided by b.u. dont say no_. He thought it was inviting enough. Spencer had left by the time Brendon found Lucía in the kitchen. He asked her to make some sandwiches and other picnic-like foods to go. It turned out that they even had a basket.

He waited for Ryan to text him back, but Ryan didn’t. Ryan was probably with William. God, fucking William. It wasn’t Brendon’s fault that he loathed William to no end and still found Ryan irresistible.

With most people, Brendon lost interest after he had fucked them. That had never happened with Ryan.

Brendon tried calling Ryan but instantly got voicemail. Well, Ryan might show up anyway. Picnic at their spot, in beautiful New York spring, perhaps talking about Brendon and Spencer, and him telling Ryan that there was no need to be upset over something like that. It wasn’t like it was incest, was it?

Brendon almost stopped on the way to buy some wine before remembering that, oh yeah, Ryan didn’t drink anymore. He was by the lake a bit early, ten to three, and he didn’t see Ryan anywhere. The sun was shining bright, and the cherry trees were blossoming. Brendon took a blanket from the basket, spreading it out on the grass. It reminded him of the time he and Ryan had sat there that winter, when it had been freezing. He chuckled when he recalled them fucking in the woods. Warmth spread in him at the memory of it. He missed having that intimacy with Ryan.

He didn’t think Ryan had stood him up until it was quarter past three. He took out a sandwich, munching on it tiredly. It felt like the day of the dead, with ghosts of Spencer and Ryan just out of reach but still hovering and lingering and leaving Brendon completely alone.

“Excuse me!” came an enthusiastic, eager voice, and Brendon looked up to realise he had been spotted by a group of girls. Fucking great.

They knew everything about him, and that was always disturbing. They asked about his car crash, when his stitches were coming out, if his parents were divorcing – when people saw it in the papers, they assumed that there was no such thing as “too personal”. Brendon didn’t say anything that couldn’t already be read in a trash magazine or another. The girls were clicking pictures with their phones, and Brendon smiled patiently. It was thanks to people like them that he got recognised, was asked to do commercials, make appearances, get fame and money and prestige. He had no real talents, but he had his looks and charms. He had to work them. Grace had taught him that early on.

“Are you having a picnic?” one of the girls asked when she spotted the basket.

“Yeah.”

“By yourself?” she gaped.

“No, uh, I think I’ve been stood up.”

The answer made the girls all the more shocked, awwing and exclaiming how horrible that was! Brendon recalled himself trying to convince Ryan to have sex with him just the night before, despite Ryan dating someone, and Brendon wanted to say that, now that he thought of it, it served him right to be stood up.

“You’ve got a proper picnic and everything!” one of the girls giggled. “I guess you were waiting for someone special.”

It was more of a question, their way of seeing if they were keeping up with the tabloids on Brendon’s marital status. They blinked at him expectantly.

Brendon thought of every single time he and Ryan had met at that spot. He thought of the banter, the jokes, the good times, the way Ryan listened to what he had to say. He thought of the way their bodies worked together when they fucked, and how he had always thought Ryan’s character to be as hard as a rock but had himself seen that hint of something softer inside.

Ryan had taken off the diamond watch Brendon had given him when he had started dating William. Ryan had taken it off. Why had he done that?

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed, his throat feeling dry. “I was waiting for someone special.”

There was a six minute rule Brendon practised with admirers. Talk to them no longer than six minutes. That ensured he wasn’t rude as well as that they didn’t think too much of the encounter. Brendon picked up the blanket and the basket and said he had to go. They looked heartbroken but blinked at him like he was a god. Brendon was important because they cared; if they stopped, he’d be nothing more than a pretty face.

Brendon walked all the way to Ryan’s. He pressed the buzzer but didn’t receive an answer. Ryan wasn’t in, then. He looked up and down the street before sighing and sitting on the steps of the building. He put on his sunglasses because he didn’t want to be recognised a second time. Like the sunglasses made a fucking difference.

He took out another sandwich and switched on his iPod. Who knew where Ryan was or when he’d be home. But Brendon had nothing better to do, so he might as well wait.

He kept fiddling with his hands, feeling nervous. Did Ryan think he was repulsive because he had fallen for Spencer? He had seen the anger in Ryan’s eyes, definitely anger, but not repulsion. He was lost in his own mind, his endless loss, but he perked up when a taxi stopped in front of the building. A dozen Saks Fifth Avenue bags emerged before a tall, thin man did. Brendon instantly jumped up.

“Hey there.”

Ryan froze at the sight of him. He was beautiful. The car took off, and Brendon was glad that William wasn’t with Ryan.

“Been busy, I see. Did you get my message?” he asked.

Ryan looked taken aback as he muttered something like, “Yeah, um... I just forgot, um...”

“That’s okay. Ate crackers, was spotted by fans and got told how gorgeous I am. Good for the ego after having been stood up,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. Ryan eyed the picnic basket disbelievingly as he walked closer with all the shopping bags. Brendon knew he never just showed up unannounced. Brendon definitely didn’t wait outside Ryan’s building, waiting for Ryan to show up, and Brendon hoped it didn’t come across as desperate.

“Right. Um...” Ryan frowned. “Are you... coming up?”

“Would love to. Thanks.”

He took a few bags from Ryan as Ryan took out his keys. Once inside the second floor apartment, Brendon dropped the bags on the living room couch, taking out purchases out of curiosity. “You should’ve told me you were going shopping. I really need to go too. Oh, this is nice!” he said as he pulled out a t-shirt.

“It’s for William,” Ryan said. Brendon forced himself not to frown or make a nasty comment. Instead, he nodded and dropped the shirt in the bag. “He will be returning it behind my back later on this week. He claims he doesn’t need any clothes, but a man always needs clothes.”

“Yeah, so true,” Brendon said and sat down on the couch. Ryan stood by the TV, obviously uncomfortable. Brendon hated that. He hated the awkwardness.

“You okay? You look kind of... pale,” Ryan offered.

“No, yeah, I’m, uh... coping,” he shrugged. He was trying to cope with having lost Spencer. He had had him, and now no longer did. He needed Ryan’s friendship more than ever. “I’m sorry if I acted like a jerk last night. Coming onto you and...”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um, that’s okay. No need to apologise.”

“No, I really do. I feel like I need to apologise for a lot of things. People shouldn’t let me get away with so much bullshit. I mean, I was driving drunk, man. I should go to jail, but I guess celebrities don’t go to jail. That’s democracy for you,” he chuckled. “And you and me, we’ve really grown apart lately, and I don’t like that. I want us to be friends again, Ry.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Ryan muttered under his breath, but Brendon heard him nonetheless.

“You’ve been angry with me, and I’ve had no idea why.”

Ryan opened his mouth to say something, but Brendon stopped him with, “I know now.”

Ryan stared.

“I don’t... I don’t remember when I fell in love with Spencer. It just happened. I think maybe because he was the only one who was always there for me. Not that it ever went anywhere, not after Spencer decided it was doomed and that he wouldn’t be a part of it anymore. But you know me. I’m kind of stubborn,” he smiled, daring a glance at Ryan who was staring at him solemnly. There was no sympathy in Ryan’s eyes. “I know you don’t see it like I do, but I’ve never seen him as my brother. Well, I do in some ways. He’s kind of in between places for me, a grey area. I know you don’t understand it, but we are _not_ related by blood. I fell in love with my closest friend. It happens.”

“But you were raised to be brothers,” Ryan interrupted and sounded just a bit despising. Brendon had never openly talked about Spencer to anyone, and he didn’t know what to expect.

“We were raised by Grace and David whenever they remembered that, oh yeah, they had kids. No wonder it went wrong,” Brendon pointed out and smirked. “So yeah. Spencer was my first love. It didn’t work out, and that chapter of my life is over. And that makes me sad, and it makes me feel really alone.”

“What do you mean it’s over?”

Brendon looked Ryan in the eyes. “Just that. It’s over. And you should know that, that when you and me had our thing, me and Spencer never... like, I don’t know. Maybe we’d make out once in six months or something. But I was never two-timing you with Spencer if... if maybe that’s what you’ve been thinking.”

He didn’t have to tell Ryan that he had slept with Spencer. It wasn’t something that concerned anyone else, and Ryan was with William and no longer sleeping with Brendon in any case. He wasn’t lying about anything.

Ryan scoffed. “I don’t care who you were sleeping with. It wasn’t like we owed each other anything. We were free to do whatever.”

“Okay. So... why are you upset about Spencer?” Brendon pointed out, and Ryan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Because if you didn’t care, this is where I’d ask you to forgive me for lying to you, or whatever you would claim would have you this worked up. And we’d go on with our lives, and I’d ignore the fact that it just _doesn’t_ add up. But I’ve been thinking about, like, when you were on coke, when you were in rehab... little things. And you can tell me I’m full of shit, you’re entitled to, but... the only way I can get the puzzle pieces to fit is to come to the conclusion that you’re in love with me.”

Brendon looked at Ryan expectantly, but Ryan’s eyes were fixed on the shopping bags on the floor.

“Are you?” he asked. Ryan didn’t answer, and it made him nervous. “Because I’m- I’m so fucking jealous of William that all I really want to do is strangle him. I don’t think, you know? I just don’t fucking think. I don’t remember when I fell in love with Spencer, and I don’t remember when I fell in love with you.”

Ryan’s head shot up. “You’re not –”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Ryan looked at him with angry eyes. “It’s over with you and Spencer, so you come running to me because you finally looked around enough to realise that the stupid gay kid has feelings for you. Well, you know what? Fuck that! I deserve more than being your second choice.”

“But I don’t want Spencer. I want you.”

“No! You just want to be loved, and no number of fans is going to be enough. Nothing is going to be enough for you!”

It wasn’t true. If he didn’t love Ryan, why did he miss him? And why did it hurt to see him with William? It was love; it must have been.

He stood up slowly, and Ryan was pale and almost shaking. “You’re with William just so that you don’t have to feel lonely, and you’re preaching to me about second choice?” he asked and shook his head. Ryan didn’t say anything.

Ryan was his first choice now. He wanted him back. He knew Ryan missed him, and now, Ryan was the one being stubborn.

“Ryan...” he said slowly. They should have been embracing and kissing by now. For the first time in a long time, Brendon wanted something he could get.

“I’m sorry. You’re too late,” Ryan said with finality in his tone, but his eyes were wide and hopeful, like in front of him was all he had ever dreamt of. Why had Brendon never realised the meaning behind those eyes before?

Brendon wasn’t too late. Ryan needed to take it in, get over his anger about Brendon and Spencer, and then Ryan would see it. Ryan would see how perfect they were for each other, in the way he had once seen it when Brendon had been too busy to notice.

“I’m not gonna force you into anything,” Brendon said slowly. “I know you’re with William. I know that, and I can respect it. But... I think we make a good team. I want to stay after we fuck, and I don’t want us fucking anyone else. I have feelings for you, and I want to see where that takes us,” he said again, because it had to coax a reaction from Ryan. Ryan inhaled sharply and looked at him with pain on his features. “But... you’re with William.”

Ryan cleared his throat, nodding. “I’m with him.”

Brendon blinked, realising Ryan wasn’t falling into his arms.

“So... where does that leave us?” he asked desperately.

Ryan looked at him with honest eyes and, after a long silence, let his shoulders drop. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

* * *

Jon wasn’t sure if he believed in karma, but the existence of such a force felt very likely just then. What had been the likelihood of Sapphire being in his – Jonathan Jacob Walker’s – favourite burrito place? Very slim. So was it surprising that he had gone over? Not at all. He hadn’t fucked anyone, bound or unbound, since he and Spencer had decided not to continue their… fuck buddy thing. Dakota had seemed like a sure thing, but had completely disappeared on him at some point of his party. That had pissed him off.

It was just a shame that Sapphire’s boyfriend was present and overheard Jon making her an offer he was sure she couldn’t refuse. She didn’t have to refuse it, though. Tom, right hand in a cast, refused it for her.

“So it’s you!” Tom spat in a furious manner. “You sick motherfucker!”

“Tom, baby, don’t –” Sapphire attempted, and Jon blinked. He was confused. Then Tom took a swing at him with his cast, and Jon understood what was up a nanosecond before Tom’s fist hit his cheekbone.

Tom knew Jon had paid Sapphire for sex. Fuck.

Tom punched him, and Jon staggered back, astounded. “Fucking shit,” he cursed and held his throbbing cheek. The pain shot up to his eyes and made them water.

“You want a piece of me, huh?!” Tom shouted, and the dude was crippled but still ready to pick a fight. “You fucking bastard, forcing her –”

“Hey!” Jon stopped him. He wasn’t going to punch Tom back, but he wouldn’t stand for plain insults either. “Hey, I did nothing she wasn’t willing to do, man! Don’t fucking start with me if –”

“No fighting! Get out or we’re calling the cops on you!” the cashier shouted from behind the counter, and only then, Jon realised that the entire place was staring at them.

Jon lifted his hands in surrender, and he glared at Sapphire. The stripper’s jaw had dropped, and she looked torn between what to do. Well, it was too late for her to choose between love and money. Jon wasn’t going to fuck her ever again if it meant Tom breathing down his neck. He’d find someone else to sleep with. Fuck, a random stripper-turned-hooker wasn’t going to ruin his life.

“All yours, man. All yours,” Jon told Tom, who was fuming at him with a raised fist.

Jon turned around and walked away, cursing his luck. His cheek ached, and he could almost feel the bruise forming.

So much for a nice, juicy burrito.

When he got home, he instantly went to the bathroom to see how bad the bruise was. It wasn’t as bad as it could be, but the cast had scraped skin just below his left eye. He followed the narrow, red line cutting across his skin. It wasn’t deep enough to bleed, but it looked nasty as the skin around it swelled up.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” Jon sighed unhappily. He buried his face in his hands and tried to fight off a headache. His place was still a mess from the party. He should’ve been cleaning up.

When he heard the impatient knocking on the door, he figured that Tom had called Brendon to ask where he lived and was coming to beat him up. Hopefully not. Shit, he really didn’t want Brendon or Spencer knowing that he had paid for sex. What was more humiliation, though, in his current state? Nothing at all.

When he opened the door, it definitely wasn’t who he was expecting.

“Spence,” he said like it wasn’t obvious. Spencer Smith was the last person on earth he wanted to see. “Could’ve called first.”

Spencer frowned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in worry. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jon shrugged, making sure he sounded sarcastic. Spencer’s own bruises hadn’t healed just yet. God, he was getting punched, Spencer was getting beaten up, and Brendon was crashing cars. Ryan Ross, the former cocaine addict, was the only one of them who had ever been even remotely normal.

Spencer walked in without a proper invitation. “No, seriously. Who did that?”

“What was it that you told me when you showed up on my door, bleeding? Oh yeah. ‘Not really your business.’ And this isn’t,” he pointed out, slamming the door shut. “What do you want? Did you forget something last night?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“About?”

Spencer just gave him a look that he couldn’t decode. “Words, Smith, use words.”

“You know what I want to talk about.”

Jon quirked an eyebrow. Well, how very pleasant. “Us? Is that the word you’re looking for?” he offered, and Spencer averted his gaze and nodded. “Okay. Here’s my speech. I’ve got one ready, you see. You, Spencer Smith, are kinda fucked up, you know that? I’d understand if I was the only one who got carried away and forgot that just sex is just fucking sex, but I wasn’t. You made the same mistake. So you led me on, then you shot me down, then last night you were so blatantly jealous when you don’t even –”

“Shut up, Jonathan,” Spencer stopped him quietly, and Jon bit his tongue. Spencer fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket before saying, “I slept with someone.”

Jon stopped entirely. Spencer had slept with someone. Spencer glanced up at him, looking guilty.

Jon swallowed the foul taste in his mouth. “You slept with someone. Okay. Good for you. Is this some sort of a competition of which one of us moves on first? Because if so, hey, you win. Or is –”

“You ramble so much when you’re upset.”

“Well, I would not go all the way to the Upper East Side to inform you of my sex life! What the fuck, Spencer?”

“I slept with someone, and I feel – I mean. It was good sex with someone I’ve had feelings for, and –”

“Shut up! Don’t you realise that I don’t want to know?!” he barked. He was going to end up punching Spencer and losing his sanity. Spencer had slept with someone, and Spencer didn’t even seem to realise how much that hurt.

“Would you listen to me? For fuck’s sake!” Spencer snapped. “I slept with someone, feelings were involved, but you know what? It didn’t compare. Not because of any, any kink or whatever. It just didn’t compare because it wasn’t with you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Yeah, it was pretty much exactly what Jon wanted to hear.

“And secondly, when I got beaten up? Brendon owed money to some guys, and I told him I’d take care of it. Well, I fucked it up, and they beat me up. I didn’t tell you because it still isn’t any of your business, but also because it was a family matter, and it was... humiliating, okay? The bruises before that, they were from the same thing. So there, you know now.”

Jon stared. “You were being blackmailed?”

“Yeah. When I borrowed ten grand off of you,” Spencer trailed off and scratched the back of his head absently. Spencer might have been nervous. Blackmail. Sex. Jon wasn’t sure what to focus on. He tried to focus on his anger because it was more black and white than the worry and longing.

“You could’ve told me. About the money.”

So much for anger.

“I thought I had it under control,” Spencer shrugged, and they both fell silent. Spencer had slept with someone but had come back to him nonetheless. Did that count as a victory or not? “So... what happened to you?” Spencer asked again.

“The boyfriend of a girl I’ve fucked punched me,” Jon admitted. A half-truth was better than no truth at all.

“Fucked recently?”

“Not recently, no. Why do you ask?”

Spencer shrugged again, pretending to be examining his nails.

“Would it bother you if it had been recently?” he prompted. He needed Spencer to admit it, say out loud what it was that he wanted.

“It wouldn’t bother me.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

Spencer said, “Let’s watch a movie.”

Jon laughed. Wow. Wow, he really wasn’t going to get much out of Spencer. “Let’s,” he said sarcastically and walked over to the couch. He didn’t have it in him to tell Spencer to go.

Spencer went to the DVD shelf and picked one out easily. He put it on and passed Jon the case when he sat on the couch. “Domino,” Spencer explained. “I know how you like Keira Knightley. Plus, she gives that lapdance in this one, which, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with the plot. It’s pretty hot, actually.”

“Sure,” Jon said. A stripping Keira Knightley didn’t do anything for him right now. He was watching a movie with his not-ex-boyfriend, who had since slept with someone who hadn’t compared to Jon, but Spencer didn’t care if Jon slept around. Well, fuck. That wasn’t much. Jon knew enough to know that it was a big step for Spencer to tell him about the blackmail, but Jon needed more than that.

Neither one of them was actually watching the movie. Jon kept sighing, feeling his cheek throb from where Tom had punched him. Spencer was sneaking glances at him. Soon enough, it got unbearable. It was ridiculous. Jon shot up, causing Spencer to jump slightly. Spencer had been slowly inching closer to him on the couch.

“I can’t do this,” Jon informed him. “I can’t! I mean, do you- do you even fucking like me?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Spencer asked, eyes full of confusion.

“A desperate one? I shouldn’t have to ask something like that, but fuck, Spencer, if you want this, you have to say so! You have to say so!”

He stared Spencer down, who suddenly looked much younger than he was. He wasn’t saying anything. How could Spencer say nothing?

Jon was done with this charade. He had let Spencer’s confusion and denial torture him far too much already.

“Get out. Leave,” he ordered. “You’re fucking breaking me, so just leave! You –”

“I like it how –” Spencer blurted out and stopped. Jon took in a calming breath, silently begging Spencer to go on, but Spencer just stared at his hands in his lap. “I like it how, when you’re figuring out a new song, you keep a pick between your lips. And how you scrunch your nose if you’re not pleased with it. And I like the way you grin when you get it right. I like those things.”

Jon’s chest felt constricted. He thought Spencer had paid no attention to him when they had been in the studio.

“I like your hands. For no particular reason, I just like them,” Spencer muttered and glanced at him. “I like your laugh, and I like the sound of it and the way it makes my stomach drop. I like lots of things about you. Fucking stupid things. And it’d bother me if you had slept with someone recently. It’d bother me a lot.”

Jon ignored how relieved he felt. He took in a calming breath. “If you... If you feel that way, then you have to say so. Do you get that? If you want me, you have to _say_ it.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said quietly, voice breaking a little. Spencer looked up at him. He looked scared. “I just... I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been honest in my life, and... the public can’t find out about –”

“You think my fans would be delighted to find out that after years of singing about chicks, I’m head over heels for a guy? That move would pretty much ruin my career,” he pointed out.

Spencer leaned back onto the couch, lips tugging into a careful smile. “Head over heels for me,” he said, biting on his bottom lip. “Really?”

Jon laughed, letting Spencer slowly pick up his shattered confidence. “Yeah. You, Spencer Smith, have made me gay. Are you happy with that?”

“It’s a pretty awesome achievement,” Spencer mused quietly, and after a beat asked, “Shouldn’t you be, like, ravishing me?”

Jon quirked an eyebrow.

“Jonathan,” Spencer said commandingly.

“Show some initiative, Smith,” he shot back.

Spencer blinked. “Fine,” he decided and stood up. He rubbed his hands against his thighs as he stepped closer, carefully leaning in. Jon couldn’t help grinning when Spencer tilted his head, leaned in, pulled back and frowned because the angle hadn’t been quite right, attempted a second time and ended up pulling back again. Spencer made a frustrated sound but was smiling. Jon laughed. Spencer liked his laugh. Jon grabbed a fistful of Spencer’s hair and kissed him, teeth hitting together, but he didn’t care.

He let his arm curl around Spencer’s waist, pulling closer as Spencer cupped his face. Jon tilted his head for more access, and he felt Spencer lean into his touch.

“I’ve missed you,” Spencer whispered against his lips.

Spencer definitely was a man who knew what he wanted, when he eventually got around to admitting what he wanted. It was very likely that a relationship with Spencer was guaranteed to make Jon lose his mind, but it seemed like a risk worth taking.

Spencer was definitely a risk worth taking.


	24. Soulmates

Soulmates.

They didn’t really exist. William said that love was making someone a better person, and Ryan agreed to some extent because William’s definition didn’t even hint at preordained matches. People were imperfect by nature, so how could there be such a thing as a perfect match? And if there was no such thing, just faulty people running after other misfits, then did anyone really have the right to tell Ryan what love was and what it wasn’t?

Ryan woke up in William’s bed. William was spooning him from behind, his even breaths washing over the nape of Ryan’s neck. Sun was shining through the slightly crooked Venetian blinds, the beams landing on them and warming Ryan’s skin. It was morning. Ryan stretched under the covers and turned around, burying his face in William’s chest. He could hear Gabe singing in the shower. The walls were like paper; the sheets felt coarse and cheap. He thought of Brendon and fell back asleep.

William woke him up with a kiss to his temple. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Hmm,” he said in return. “What time is it?”

“Around noon. I’m gonna go for a shower,” William said, and Ryan felt the bed dip as William’s warmth disappeared. Ryan didn’t want to get up, but he had a busy day ahead of himself. He lazily got dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before. He found his Sidekick in his pocket, having received a message during the night. It was from Brendon, and he smiled.

_green or red?_

Ryan took a moment to consider it before texting back _green. brings out ur eyes more._

William came back from the shower, drying his hair with a towel, butt naked otherwise. “There’s this nice café not too far from here. I have no food in the kitchen.”

Ryan eyed his naked boyfriend. “Doesn’t Gabe mind you prancing around in the nude?”

“Nope. I like making him question his sexual orientation,” William smirked. Ryan laughed half-heartedly, and William asked, “So when’s the party tonight?”

“I think we’ll head through around eleven. Is that good for you?”

William nodded. Ryan’s eyes danced on William until he held out his hand. “Come here,” he said from where he was sitting on the edge of William’s bed. William walked over, and Ryan inhaled the shower fresh smell. He placed a kiss on William’s lower abdomen. “I’d tell you to fuck me if I wasn’t sore from last night.”

William laughed. “You’re insatiable.”

“I like sex.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed.”

Ryan placed another kiss on the smooth skin. Lust. Now, there was a clear-cut human emotion with no bullshit involved.

They went to the café down the street. Ryan looked around, missing his beloved Manhattan that just had so much more class than Brooklyn. They held hands, and no one really cared whether or not they did. Ryan’s parents didn’t know that he was gay, but he didn’t care whether or not they knew. A few disapproving looks aside, no one had given him a hard time for being gay. Of course, he knew that was a good thing, but he felt just slightly bitter. Anything to do with him should have been a big deal.

“So what are you gonna wear tonight?” Ryan asked when they sat around a table. Ryan took his croissant, ripping off a piece as William unfolded a newspaper.

“I could wear... clothes?”

“Some of those I bought you, maybe,” Ryan suggested and received a shrug. William didn’t care what he was wearing to Brendon’s twenty-second birthday bash. Of course not. William just wasn’t like that. Brendon cared, was obviously already trying to decide on the colours, and Ryan himself had decided already – black slacks, always a classic, with a cream button up and his new, ridiculously expensive but so glorious leather jacket.

Jon called, and Ryan instantly picked up. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

“I just woke up. Dude, I’ve got the nastiest hangover. I don’t even remember you leaving the club last night,” Jon groaned at the other end. “It was fun, though.”

“Yeah, it was. It’s been a while since the four of us hung out like that.”

“I know, right? And it should be fun tonight too. I went online and ended up ordering Brendon what I think are the best twenty-two albums of the past thirty years. He won’t appreciate it at all, but I’ll feel good giving him the CDs,” Jon laughed brightly.

Ryan hummed and took a sip of his coffee. Jon had been very happy recently, but Ryan didn’t know what was causing it.

“You want to meet up before the party?”

“I’m in Brooklyn, at William’s.”

“Oh, right. How’s the young love?”

Ryan paused because he didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s, um...”

Jon laughed. “You so totally got laid last night.”

“Twice, actually,” he grinned before remembering that William was right there, hearing his part of the conversation. He cleared his throat.

“Twice for me too,” Jon grinned, and Ryan wondered who Jon had hooked up with after he had gone. He didn’t remember Jon talking to anyone apart from their gang.

William folded the newspaper and asked, “Good to go?”

“Oh. Yeah, just –”

Jon probably overheard as he said, “Go spend time with your boyfriend. I’ll catch you later. I’ve got a date with a feisty brunette in my bed.”

Ryan laughed. “You put Casanova to shame, man. I’ll see you at the party tonight.” He slid his Sidekick back into his pocket and followed William out of the café. “You wanna go to my place?” he suggested in a hopeful tone as they laced fingers and began heading back towards William’s. He wondered what Brendon would say about seeing them walk down the street like that. Brendon would probably throw a small bitchfest and get jealous. Ryan grinned at the thought.

“You know, you can just tell me you don’t like my place. I know you think it’s a shit hole.”

Well, of course it was a shit hole. A matchbox-sized, previously-inhabited-by-rats apartment occupied by a receptionist/fitness instructor and a nurse/part-time DJ. Ryan’s place was nicer, was classy, was gorgeous, and William still seemed to prefer his place. Ryan wanted to point out that he had six hundred dollar sheets for them to fuck on.

“It’s a shit hole,” Ryan agreed.

“Wow,” William chuckled. “The truth comes out.”

Ryan loved many things about William, but there were also things he didn’t like. It was impossible to get William worked up over anything, even things they disagreed on.

“I’m a snob,” Ryan shrugged. He was a bit proud of it.

“There you go then,” William said like it was no big deal. William said it in a calm tone, and Ryan wasn’t sure if they were arguing or bickering, or perhaps just exchanging opinions. With Brendon, he could always tell. Brendon would explode and complain and argue why everyone else was wrong and he inevitably was right.

Ryan stopped walking, pulling his hand from William’s. “You know, I should go home. Study. And –”

“You want to do your thing, not our thing,” William finished for him and smiled. “That’s okay. We’re going to the party tonight, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed and pecked William on the cheek. He wondered just how shitty a person he was because he felt no guilt whatsoever.

He had said he’d study, but of course, he didn’t. Fuck that shit. He took an hour long bath, reading a book and smoking cigarettes. He wasn’t drinking or doing drugs, but he had started smoking cigarettes again. A man needed to have a vice of some kind.

William was dressed in his old clothes when he arrived that evening. Ryan had bought him designer clothes but never mind. He knew it wasn’t pride – it was just that William didn’t care.

“Just give me half an hour,” he said as he hadn’t gotten ready himself yet. He put on the clothes he had already laid out, finally pulling on his new jacket. In the end, he slipped on the diamond wristwatch Brendon had bought him from Tiffany’s. He carded his fingers through his hair and examined himself in the mirror. He looked fantastic.

Brendon’s party was being held in one of their favourite clubs. Naturally, every even remotely famous friend of the Smith-Urie duo had been invited, and the street outside was packed with paparazzi.

“This is insane,” William said as they approached the red carpet. “Fucking insane...”

“They don’t care about us,” Ryan reminded him, and sure enough, the cameramen only snapped two pictures of them just in case they were famous and they didn’t know it. Ryan was amongst the select few of the VIP group on the actual guest list. The party planner was at the door with a walkie-talkie, making sure everything was going to plan with sweat pushing through at her hairline. Ryan smirked and walked past her, out of the streets of New York and into the club.

They stopped at the top of the stairs leading down. The dance floor was packed with people, a huge ‘Happy 22nd Birthday, Brendon!’ banner hanging above the small stage that had been built in the back corner of the club. Ryan could feel in the beat of the music that this was the place to be tonight in all of New York City.

They descended the stairs, and Ryan kept trying to spot Brendon in the crowd. People were lifting their glasses as they recognised him, making way because Ryan wasn’t just a regular guest and the people there knew it. Matt found them instantly, beaming as she hugged them both enthusiastically. She had definitely had a few drinks already.

“I thought you’d be working on your thesis,” Ryan remarked.

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m here!” she said excitedly. Ryan kept gazing around to spot his gang. William went to get them drinks – orange juice for Ryan. He didn’t really even miss alcohol when it came down to it. He had realised that he gained an advantage being sober, because most of the time, people blurted out their true thoughts and feelings after a few drinks, and Ryan was like a sponge, soaking it all up. Keep your friends close...

Ryan turned to talk to Matt but forgot what he wanted to say when he saw Brendon approaching them.

“Hey! You’re here!” Brendon grinned from ear to ear.

“Hi. Happy birthday,” he returned, grinning just as much. His insides swirled together as they hugged. It was a tight, full-body hug. Brendon gave the best hugs.

Brendon pulled back, movements fast and eager. “Well! Did you leave your present on the gifts table? I’m expecting something glamorous!”

“I couldn’t be bothered shopping for someone who has everything,” he said, and Brendon’s expression fell. Ryan liked teasing him. “I was actually thinking...” he said, his voice dropping an octave or two. Brendon lifted both of his eyebrows, and Ryan was leaning towards Brendon like a magnet being pulled.

Matt was staring at them disbelievingly.

“You’re not wearing anything green,” he observed as he looked Brendon up and down.

Brendon wiggled his eyebrows. “Yes, I am.”

Ryan’s eyes landed on Brendon’s crotch. Underwear.

“Come on,” Ryan decided hastily, sliding his hands into his pockets and nodding Brendon the way. “Be right back,” he told Matt, who was looking away, maybe thinking she didn’t have to deal with it if she pretended not to notice. Now, that was the sign of a good friend.

They snaked through the crowd, Brendon receiving well wishes from left and right. Ryan’s heart kept beating fast, adrenalin pushing into his system. They walked through a “Staff Only” door, leaving the party behind. Ryan glanced up and down, opening a door at random and stepping into what looked like a locker room for employees. Brendon closed the door behind them, leaned against it and grinned. “So, hi.”

Ryan grinned back. “Hey.”

Brendon was quick to pull Ryan to him and press their lips together. They had seen each other just last night, had ended up fucking in the club bathroom, but Ryan had missed Brendon nonetheless. He wasn’t going to tell it to Brendon, though. He had figured out that the only way he could be sure that Brendon truly wanted him was to keep Brendon guessing.

Ryan had who he wanted, he had Brendon, but he would be damned if he was going to wear his heart on his sleeve. He wasn’t going to tell Brendon how much he missed him, how much he loved him. No, he would definitely tell him none of those things.

The kissing was hungry, and Ryan cupped Brendon’s face and pulled the younger man closer. Brendon sighed against his lips, sounding content.

Ryan broke the kiss and brushed his knuckles against Brendon’s cheek. He hoped that Brendon couldn’t read the love in his eyes.

“Missed you,” Brendon said, looking dazed, and Ryan didn’t say it back. Brendon smiled, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. “What you been up to?”

He shrugged. “Went to Bill’s last night, then home this morning. Done nothing special, really.”

“Ah,” Brendon said, paused, then asked, “Did you sleep with him?”

“Well, he _is_ my boyfriend.”

“For now,” Brendon said, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist and pulling closer. “When are you gonna leave him?”

Ryan would leave William when he was sure Brendon wasn’t just bullshitting him. Whenever that might be, whenever that might be...

“William saved me from cocaine and myself. I can’t just dump his ass,” Ryan reminded Brendon. “I’m waiting for the right time.” Brendon pouted, and Ryan brushed hair behind his ear. “Tonight, though... I’m gonna take you back to my place after the party.”

Brendon grinned wide. “Good. I love waking up next to you.”

“Hmm,” Ryan agreed and leaned in for another kiss. He had to learn how to trust Brendon again, and he knew Brendon didn’t understand that. It was hard, though. It’s not like he had ever fallen out of love with Brendon, and having Brendon be all his was his new drug. But drugs were treacherous. He forced himself to take a step back whenever Brendon took one towards him.

It was good Ryan was still going to therapy.

Ryan was trying to combine what he wanted with what was best for him to ensure that he would still be alive ten years down the line, that he hadn’t died of a cocaine overdose after coming home to find Brendon in bed with someone else. How genuine was Brendon’s self-proclaimed love when Spencer was still there?

“Better go back out to the party,” Ryan told Brendon.

“Let’s stay here and make out a while longer,” Brendon suggested.

Ryan laughed and rolled his eyes. Fuck, he loved Brendon so much.

“Fine,” he said. And that didn’t go with his policy of keeping Brendon guessing, but he didn’t manage to push him away every damn time.

Brendon grinned against his mouth, arms wrapping around his shoulders and fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. Ryan let his hands rest on Brendon’s hips, and he would let himself stay there for two minutes, no more than that. Two more minutes, and he’d push Brendon away again.

At least he had Brendon. At least he had him. And it was all about having someone, because soulmates didn’t exist. It was about finding someone you wanted to have in your life for as long as you yourself lived, and it was all about keeping them. And if that meant making Brendon doubt Ryan’s feelings for all eternity, then fine. Ryan would do it.

Was it easy? No. But life wasn’t meant to be easy, and Ryan was slowly figuring that out.

* * *

Spencer had no idea where Brendon was. They were going to bring the cake out soon, and they would all sing Happy Birthday, but Brendon had gone missing. The party planner looked horrified, but Spencer just shrugged. Brendon would turn up eventually.

Spencer took a sip of his drink as he scanned the room and leaned against the bar. He said, “Stop staring at me.”

Jon took a long gulp of his beer, keeping his eyes on Spencer, unblinking, and said, “I’m not staring.”

“Could you be any more obvious?” He lowered his voice slightly and added, “People are not stupid. They will figure it out if you keep acting like a love sick puppy around me.”

Jon sighed and tore his eyes away from him. “Yeah, I know. You’re just pretty.”

Spencer scrunched his nose in disapproval, and Jon smirked at him. Jon’s eyes shone slightly, and Spencer felt his stomach drop. It was moments like those that he wished he could stand closer to Jon, let his fingers brush against Jon’s, do any of those little things. But he had been acting all of his life, and he could keep it up.

“We’re setting the dates for a summer tour. Six weeks,” Jon said conversationally.

“Six weeks? Wow, that’s... that’s a long time,” he admitted. He cleared his throat and forced himself to take it like a man. Six weeks without Jon? Whatever. He could take it. He was not dependent on Jon, for god’s sake.

Jon scratched his cheek slightly and said, “You could come with me. I want to show you places. Cities, venues, ballrooms... You’d have your own bunk on the bus. And, dude, bunk sex? You’d love it.”

“Bunk sex?”

“Okay, fine. You’d fucking hate bunk sex. But, if you have no plans for the summer... Seriously, though,” Jon shrugged, tilting his hips. “Come on tour with me.”

Jon stared at him with warm, brown eyes, and Spencer found himself saying, “Okay,” before he had even properly processed the proposition. Jon grinned, and Spencer had to look away to suppress the urge to kiss Jon. Spencer had to think about his family and Brendon, about the reputation. He had to think of Jon’s career too. And it’s not like he was _that_ smitten by Jon as to not be able to control his urges.

“Sweet,” Jon said, and Spencer stared. Yeah, fuck it. He was that smitten.

“Hey,” Brendon said, showing up and grinning from ear to ear with a drink in his hand. Behind him were Ryan and William, and Ryan lifted his orange juice as a way of greeting them. William smiled widely but felt like an odd attachment to their group of four.

Spencer smiled cautiously at Ryan. He knew something was up with Ryan and Brendon. He wasn’t blind. William, from what Spencer could tell, had always been a bit suspicious of the pair but didn’t pick out anything out of the ordinary. Ryan was talking to Spencer again, and that was something.

Spencer wondered if Brendon had the slightest idea of the hell Ryan had been through over him. Probably not.

The music quieted down, and Brendon perked up. It was time for the cake. It had all been planned beforehand, and Spencer had refused to give a speech. He had done it last year. It was Brendon and Jon who headed for the stage as an enormous, five-layer cake was revealed. Brendon grinned and basked in the limelight as Jon wished him happy birthday, telling a story of something stupid they had done in the past year, and how Brendon was twenty-two but it didn’t show at all yet.

Everyone sang happy birthday, well, apart from Ryan. Ryan just leaned against the bar with a slightly bored look on his face.

“Thank you so much. You sound beautiful,” Brendon remarked when the song finished, and he got the microphone. Brendon started a long list of people he thanked for making his day special. Spencer noticed Ryan smiling when he was mentioned. Ryan was still in love with Brendon, it was obvious enough. So why was William still in the picture?

“Also, thanks to my little brother. Spence, you’re awesome,” Brendon said, and Spencer just smiled. Ryan shifted slightly, biting on his bottom lip.

The music came back on when Brendon finished his speech. “That cake looks gorgeous,” William said, obviously impressed. “You want some, Ry?”

“Yeah,” Ryan nodded, and William went to join the queue. Spencer wasn’t about to eat a cake that was full of butter and sugar. No, absolutely not.

“So,” he said, taking advantage of being alone with Ryan. He stopped to hesitate. “Are we okay?”

Ryan nodded but didn’t look him in the eye. Spencer knew that Ryan couldn’t just forget about him and Brendon. Spencer wasn’t sure how to tell Ryan there was nothing to be worried about, because there always would be something to be worried about. Brendon and him, it was complicated. They had been involved, they had been in love, they had grown up, they had fucked, and at times, it had been happy, but mostly, it had just been sad and agonising.

“I’m not after Brendon. You can have him.” Ryan jerked, and Spencer double-checked to make sure Jon wasn’t anywhere near because, god, he wouldn’t be able to deal with the smug grin on Jon’s face should he overhear the words. “What I mean is that I’m in love with someone. I’ve met this... person.”

Ryan stood up straighter, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. “You’re in love with someone?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, just a bit disbelievingly himself. “And Brendon doesn’t miss me. You’re all he talks about,” he pointed out, and Ryan looked slightly put off. Spencer estimated the situation but only ended up nodding and walking away before Ryan got the chance to ask who he had fallen in love with.

He almost instantly bumped into Brendon, who was talking to people and holding a plateful of cake.

“Good speech,” he told Brendon, who beamed.

“Thanks. Where’s Ryan?”

“Back there,” he said and motioned.

“Have you seen Tom?” Brendon asked, and he shook his head. Tom had quit his job, for whatever reason. Brendon had been upset over it quite a bit, but Spencer could understand if Tom didn’t want to spend his life driving them around. Especially if it meant a drunken Brendon almost having him killed. Last Spencer had heard, Tom was going to move to South Carolina with a girl he had met, someone named Elise. Good luck to them, Spencer figured. It’d be a pain in the ass finding another chauffeur.

Spencer could see Brendon was busy hanging out with the guests, so he said, “Hey, I want to talk to you about something when you have time.”

“Sure,” he grinned. “Did I tell you what the old folks got me? A two-week holiday in the location of my choice for me and one companion. I’ve been thinking India. Or maybe Greece! I don’t know.”

“They better give me the same present,” Spencer pointed out, his mind already raking through the world map to see where he would feel like going.

“I was - I was thinking about asking Ryan to come with me,” Brendon said. “Is that cool?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Yeah? You don’t mind?” Brendon asked, genuine concern in his eyes. Spencer shook his head. He had a feeling Ryan Ross would turn into melted butter when Brendon told him he wanted Ryan to go on a luxurious five-star trip for two somewhere in the world. “Awesome,” Brendon grinned.

Spencer let Brendon entertain the guests and tried to find Jon because he was drawn to Jon and wanted to be near him at all times. God, he was pathetic, and he didn’t even care. Jon was talking to mutual acquaintances, and Spencer easily walked over and joined in on the conversation. One of the girls asked Jon to go dancing with her, and Spencer took in a calming breath as Jon politely declined.

Their companions went dancing, and Spencer wondered if it was suspicious to outsiders to see the two of them alone so much. He was most likely being paranoid.

“You know what would be really hot?” he asked Jon.

“Oh, yeah,” Jon said, voice dropping low. “I was cleaning this morning, and I found these silk ropes I forgot I even had. They’ll leave such pretty marks on you... So you add the silk ropes with the blindfold I just bought,” Jon trailed off.

Okay, yeah, that was hot. They definitely had to do that.

“I was actually thinking that it’d be really, _really_ hot if you bottomed,” he said, and Jon almost choked on his drink.

“’Scuse me?” he asked, clearing his throat. Spencer just smirked. “What? No. No, no, my ass is a no-go zone. Definite no.”

Spencer leaned over to Jon’s ear, knowing that the loud music justified it. “I’m an amazing top, Jon. You’d _love_ it. God, I’d have you writhing on the bed... Fuck. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about you spread out in front of me like that.”

Jon’s breathing washed over his cheek, just a bit shallow. “Yeah?”

“Hmm, yeah,” he agreed. He pulled back, and Jon was staring at him and licking his lips. “So, how’s that sound?”

“I –” Jon began before frowning and shaking his head. “Oh. Oh, wow. For a second there, I was considering letting you violate the sanctity of my ass. Good thing I snapped out of it.” Jon smirked at him.

“Asshole. Excuse the pun,” Spencer replied. Jon laughed, but Spencer so had him by the balls. He knew that the mental image was still playing in Jon’s head, and sooner rather than later, most likely helped by the element of surprise, Jon would so let Spencer fuck him. It’d be well worth the wait.

They ended up parting ways, both probably trying not to come across as too suspicious. Every now and then, Spencer looked around to see Jon talking to different people, and he’d relax knowing Jon was there and would continue talking to whomever he had bumped into.

Ryan had come out of the closet, and the gang, as well as everyone else, had accepted it. Ryan Ross was just too fucking intimidating to be called a fag. He’d fuck you up if you did that. Spencer wasn’t the biggest music guru in the world, but he knew Jon’s songs were good, _really_ good. Jon would continue rising to new heights, and that boded well for the gang and their prestige. David and Grace were still a fucking mess, nothing could change that, but it had gone back to being a more private mess for the time being. In all honesty, Spencer had finally stopped caring. Brendon had been at a breaking point, but Spencer could see him all over the club, shining brighter than any star in the sky.

They were doing alright.

The party got wild, and Spencer watched it from a distance. He had always preferred that role, observing and analysing. The official photographer was making sure to photograph everyone, and Spencer had no idea how Jon managed it, but when the photographer came around to him, Jon was there, wrapping an arm around Spencer’s shoulders.

“Smile,” Jon told him, and Spencer rolled his eyes before grinning at the camera.

“Superb!” the man exclaimed. “A picture with both of the brothers, perhaps?”

“Sure,” Spencer agreed, and the photographer disappeared to hunt down Brendon. Jon had a plateful of cake and tried offering him some.

“Seriously, Spence, this cake is delicious,” he said. Jon shoved the spoon his way, but Spencer shook his head. “Spencer Smith. Take some fucking cake.”

Spencer let out a disbelieving sound. Jon Walker was so infuriating.

“Fine,” he snapped, grabbing the spoon and taking a mouthful of the chocolate cake. He stopped. Goddamn, it was absolutely _gorgeous_. He stared at the spoon slightly. Oral orgasm, right there.

“Hmm?” Jon said encouragingly, obviously knowing he was right.

“This is really good,” Spencer said before even swallowing properly. How many calories was that? He wasn’t sure as he tried to figure out the ingredients.

“Here we go!” the photographer said when he came back with Brendon. Brendon ruffled his hair and settled next to Spencer. They wrapped an arm over each other’s shoulders, smiling in a practiced manner. The flashing lights blinded Spencer momentarily, but he was used to that. On some days, the flashes felt malicious, some days benevolent.

“Superb, superb!” the photographer enthused.

“Hey, what was it that you wanted to talk about?” Brendon asked, and Spencer figured he might as well say it now.

“Come here,” he said, leading Brendon away from their friends and acquaintances. Brendon stared at him expectantly, and Spencer tried to think of how to say it. He wasn’t at all sure what kind of a reaction he’d get. “Look, Bren. I’ve been thinking about things, kind of assessing everything and... I’ve been looking at places. Open plan lofts, I kinda like those. I mean that, well...”

Brendon stared at him in astonishment. “Are you talking about moving out?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Out of the condo. Move somewhere in East Village, maybe. Jon’s got some connections; he’s been helping me look.”

The smile on Brendon’s face faded. “But... But it’s our home. It’s where we live. I mean –”

“I know all that,” Spencer admitted. “It’s not an easy decision. I don’t mean to throw this on you now, um... Actually, yeah, I think I’m ruining your night. Sorry. I’ve just been meaning to tell you, so –”

“No, I’m glad you told me. It’s just... wow. Wow,” Brendon muttered. He looked sad, and Spencer wasn’t sure what to say. Of course, Brendon didn’t think that they were going to live there until they died, but Brendon never thought of the future much. Well, Spencer did. It was time to leave the nest and let their so-called parents live their own lives. Out of sight, out of mind, he supposed. It was time they stopped caring about a lost cause and turned their attentions to things that were much more worthwhile.

“Have you found a place yet?” Brendon asked. Spencer shook his head. “But what about... George, and... I mean, he’s our dog. He’d miss you. I’d miss you.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I mean –”

“Shit. No, I –” Spencer stopped and laughed. “Bren, I’ve been looking for a place for the both of us. Are you insane? I’m not leaving you behind. Dude, come on. You’re my brother.”

Brendon’s eyes widened in realisation. “Oh. Oh!” He instantly broke into a relieved grin. “That sounds fantastic! Yeah, I mean, we’re not kids anymore. Our own place, Spence, that sounds fucking fantastic!”

Spencer smiled. “Yeah? So you like the idea?”

“I love it. Fuck, yeah, I’d love that,” Brendon grinned disbelievingly. “I have to tell Ryan!”

Spencer laughed and nodded in agreement, hoping that Ryan wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Happy birthday,” he said, giving Brendon a big hug. Brendon hugged back, pressing his smile against Spencer’s shoulder. Brendon was insane thinking Spencer would move out and leave Brendon behind. He would never do that. The two of them, they made a team. He’d be nothing more than a confused animal without Brendon. They made their own family.

“So you wanna go look at places next week?” he suggested when they pulled back from the hug.

“Yeah,” Brendon enthused. It was settled, then. Brendon spotted the photographer and said, “Oh, we need a group picture! Wait here! Goddammit, where’s Ryan?”

Jon instantly walked over. “So Brendon took the news well?”

“Oh, yeah. He loves the idea,” Spencer grinned.

“That’s fantastic. More cake?” Jon offered, and Spencer took the plate. Might as well. He couldn’t be bothered keeping count of what he ate. It was almost freeing. Huh. He should try not caring tomorrow too. “So,” Jon said with a small fake laugh, cocking his hips slightly. “I was talking to Ryan. He said something really funny. See, Ryan told me that you told him that you were in love with someone. He asked me if I knew. Told him I didn’t. I thought that was interesting.”

Shit. Spencer glanced at Jon, and yeah, there was that obnoxiously smug grin.

“Ryan’s probably back on coke. You know, hallucinating. I never said anything like that. This cake is really delicious.” He licked the spoon.

“Uh huh. Sure, you said nothing like that. Sure, you didn’t,” Jon said knowingly. If Spencer ignored Jon long enough, maybe Jon would go away. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Nope. No such luck. Jon was grinning. Smug bastard.

“Okay, you guys, come on,” Brendon ordered them, coming back with Ryan and the photographer. “Me in the middle, I’m the birthday boy!”

Spencer put the plate down, taking his place next to Brendon. Ryan was wrapping an arm around Brendon’s shoulders rather possessively, and next to Ryan, Jon was still grinning at him.

“Sorry, could you- could you look at the camera?” the photographer asked Jon, and Spencer almost snorted. Jon was the lousiest actor ever. That’s why Spencer liked him.

The camera flashed, and they were forever captured in yet another photo. Brendon began telling Ryan about their moving plans, and from behind them, Jon’s eyes asked Spencer just how long the two of them would be able to keep pretending, keep their secret. Spencer didn’t know. As long as necessary, he hoped.

The bright lights of the club landed on them, making them see life through a veil. Everything looked more beautiful like that, the edges soft and blurred. And Spencer had made everyone happy. For now, he had managed it.

Small, small victories.

 

****

The End


End file.
